


Exemption

by Namesonboats (Viken2592)



Series: A Murmuration Of Starlings [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Abduction, Adventure & Romance, All Magic Comes With a Price, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Assault, Atonement - Freeform, Bittersweet Ending, Canon Divergence, Character Death, Childbirth, Cult of Freya, DaddyDettlaff, Druidic circle, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Friendship, POV Alternating, Possessive Behavior, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Searching for a legacy, The smut is mostly vanilla but with occasional biting, Unplanned Pregnancy, dragon - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-05-01 18:04:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 97,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14526156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viken2592/pseuds/Namesonboats
Summary: Dettlaff stood with his arms folded and gaze fixed on her. He directed his eyes to the ring on his finger.“Regis, I need to ask your permission for something.”~A journey towards Skellige to explore the legacy of an ancient sisterhood of sorceresses, the main characters of this story; Rennaugh, Regis and Dettlaff, are each drawn to the islands in their own way. A fic about understanding one's heritage and what it means to be a family, inspired by Norse mythic sagas.Sequel toResonance.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because there aren’t enough “woman gets knocked up by a vampire”- stories in the world, right?
> 
> Exemption is a standalone sequel to my previous fic [ Resonance ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12826005/chapters/29282385), which is complementary, not fundamental, to this fic (or so goes my ambition). 
> 
> Suggestions, comments and feedback are always appreciated! However, anon abuse will be deleted - I wish to keep the comments section respectable for all readers. If you’d like to engage with my work critically, please contact me on my [tumblr](https://namesonboats.tumblr.com/), and we can have a conversation! 
> 
> The name of the female oc in this fic, Rennaugh, is a form of the Scandinavian name Rönnog/Rønnough. The e in Rennaugh is pronounced like the i in the English word “bird”. The au is pronounced like the o in “do”. The g is hard. [Rœ:nnu:g] 
> 
> I’m not a native English speaker/writer, my apologies for any language errors made!
> 
> Note to his chapter: Dettlaff discarded his moth pin in the [12th chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12826005/chapters/30068391) of the previous fic and replaced it with a starling.

 

to live in this world

 

you must be able

to do three things

to love what is mortal;

to hold it against your bones knowing

your own life depends on it;

and, when the time comes to let it go,

to let it go

 

//Mary Oliver

 

_Year 1280_

 

The crypt underneath the great oak Gedyneith had served as a gathering spot for Skellige druids since time immemorial. This day, the grotto-like chamber smelled of burnt juniper, haw-thorn and veratrum. The light from oil lamps and tallow candles enhanced an ongoing ritual.

A circle of druids passed around a wooden bowl, ornamented with magic runes. Each druid took a sip from the bowl. The beverage exhaled a strong scent of allspice. The men hummed a tune in Elder Speech; a deep, low chant.

A tall and slim druid took the bowl. His face was wrinkled, all prominent nose and blue, watery eyes. He wore a dark blue cambric robe and amice held together with a runed brooch underneath his long, grey beard. His reindeer-horned hat cast long, thorny shadows on the stone walls.

A young druid with strawberry blonde hair fell to his knees, moaning. The others continued their humming.

The young man squinted, his entire body rigidly outstretched on the stone floor.

“A severed hand!” He cried through gritted teeth, “claws through a beloved chest!”

The elder druid gestured to the others not to stop the ritual. His eyes followed the motions of the young man on the floor, whose limbs relaxed.

“There is no death,” the young druid whispered. “Another chance?” His eyes still closed, he gasped. “She is! She is near!”

The other druids watched in surprise as a smile spread on the young druid’s face. Soon, it to turn into a grimace.

“No, she shouldn’t come! There is pain! So much pain…”

He rolled up into foetal position and curled his hands against his chest.

The humming stopped.

 

*

 

Later that night, the young druid Bran sat in his chambers, taking notes on a parchment. The light from a wax candle spread a warm circle on his desk.

The door opened with a creak. He looked up over his shoulder to see the Hierophant of the Skellige druidic circle, Haerviu, enter the room.

“Ah, Bran. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

His long hair and bushy beard showed streaks of copper, illuminated by the candlestick in his hand. He had changed to a simple, grey robe bound with a white rope.

“I was – I will soon take to bed.” Bran didn’t wish for the Hierophant to see him fidget. He closed his diary.

Haerviu gestured to the younger druid.

“I only wished to know if you were feeling better after our last session. It is normal to be upset after such a –”

“Hierophant – what happened? I can’t remember what I said.”

“You slipped into a trance, dear boy. You spoke of her arrival. First, you claimed she existed. Then, that she is coming. It was over in mere minutes.”

The confusion still rung in Bran’s head.

“What does it all mean? Who is she?”

“On this, we will need to meditate. We will call for Freya Modron to enlighten us.” He smiled. “How is your composing coming along?”

Bran sensed the Hierophant wanted to console him with his question. He blushed. Music was his great passion.

“Good! Thank you. I only need to find a singer.”

“I’m sure you will, in due time.”

The Hierophant revealed a leather-covered book hid behind his back.

“I have something for you: _The Conjunction of the Spheres_  by Nivelle.”

“Thank you!” Bran accepted the volume and opened its cover. “I have been meaning to read this! It’s fascinating, all the creatures lost in our world…”

“Yes, the most catastrophic event in our time,” the Hierophant answered, “even worse than the White Frost, which was ultimately defeated. All these monsters alien to this world, not part of the gods creations…”

Bran raised his eyes from the book, frowning.

“Surely our great mother acknowledges all forms of life?”

The Hierophant observed him.

“Would our Great Mother care for an Erynia the way she cares for you? A monster? Or a vampire? Whose sole purpose is to drink the blood of those who truly belong to this world?”

Bran didn’t answer. The hierophant was right; those creatures were indeed monsters. Still, something chafed in him at his words.

“Anyway,” the older druid continued in a more cheerful tone, “I’ve always enjoyed Nivelle, he’s entertaining for a scholar. You will learn from his writing that the elves consider humans to have arrived with the conjunction. Preposterous!” He huffed.

Bran mustered courage. He hoped his voice wouldn’t break.

“Hierophant – the girls found to have magic abilities. What will happen to them?”

Haerviu’s eyes narrowed. The hair on Bran’s arms stood up underneath his robes.

“Who told you of them?”

“I…”

“They will be sent to the continent. The witch hunts have ended, but the attitude to magic wielders is still rather intolerant. But they should be safe. Empress Cirilla of Nilfgaard is granting them amnesty. The rumour is spreading she is about to marry King Thyssen, of your birth nation. We all know _he_ is tolerant towards magic wielders.”

Bran dropped his jaw. The hierophant seemed amused at his surprise.

“Do not fret, Bran. They will receive proper care.”

“But – “

“It is late. We’d best get to sleep. The gathering begins early tomorrow.”

Bran closed his mouth. He escorted the Hierophant out of his chambers and bade him good night.

It took hours before he could relax enough to finally fall asleep.

 

*

 

Two days ride north of the border to Touissant, a trio of two men and a woman journeyed towards the Yaruga river.

Autumn neared its end. Lazy bumblebees buzzed on cyclamens and migrating swans sang their melancholic cries. The cool evening air breezed through golden and red leaves and bushes, and specks of snow covered the tips of the high mountains surrounding the travellers.

The woman lifted a leather-gloved hand to her forehead. She broke out in a cold sweat.

“Please, can we rest?” She asked her companions. “I can hear a stream nearby. We can water the horses.”

The two men nodded in silence.  

When they reached the stream, she jumped off her grey mare and squatted by the water. She removed her glove to let her palm touch its cool surface. The calm energies soothed her mind.

She could upset the waters by a simple push of the force. The mere thought sent a buzz of energy through her fingers. The crystalline waters shivered.

The flows of the force erupted like flower buds to stream in her veins like heated, liquid glass. She remembered grasping the energies of bodies to fling them against a stone wall, the sound of crushed bones and ripped flesh mixed with shrill screams...

Her hand trembled as bile rose in her throat. She lost the connection to the water. It flowed back into the body of the stream.

“Rennaugh?”

The man who spoke her name had pale blue eyes and raven hair with greying strands in the temples. A gold and green metal pin shaped like a starling sat fastened to the shoulder pad of his black leather coat, reverberating the dying sunbeams.

“What’s wrong? Is it the memories?”

She stood up.

“I’m fine.”

She wasn’t sure why she lied to him. Her mind often wandered back to the places where she had killed and nearly been killed. She didn’t understand why it stirred to much emotion now, several weeks after.

“You don’t have to be strong for us.” He had a stern expression, but she knew he cared. “Take the time you need to heal.”

She forgot about her fatigue. Warmth bloomed in her chest. It always did whenever he placed his eyes on her.

He held her gaze before turning to inspect the packing fastened on their horses.

“Dettlaff is right.” The grey-haired man with large sideburns said. He sported a leather jacket with sleeves wrapped in ornament clothing and fingerless gloves with an embroidered pattern of a snake surrounding a triangle. A branch of mistletoe and a garlic fastened to his satchel told of his expertise in healing herbs.

“The effects of shock follow certain patterns but may also vary from individual to individual. We are here for you, you know.”

“Stop, Regis, before I start to cry.” She managed to smile. “Let’s speak of something else.”

“Certainly!”

He handed her a sandwich from his satchel.

“How about the purpose of our journey? To find an ancient sisterhood of magic on the Skellige isles! Truly a quest ripe for adventure!”

She didn’t answer. His smiled faded.

“Are you afraid of what you might find?”

She bit into her sandwich before answering. He was right. And yet not.

Only a week ago, she was sure of the necessity of the trip. Now, her conviction faltered. Who was she to take these men on such a long journey, only to investigate a rumour?

“I’m afraid I won’t find anything,” she said. “That I’ve taken you on this trip for nothing.”

“Ah, but knowing there is nothing to know is also a kind of knowledge.”

Her worry dissipated. Regis often did this; shared wisdom simultaneously elegant, consoling and slightly sarcastic.

Regis fell in silence. He directed his gaze on their companion.

“You know, horses normally shun vampires,” he said, as if having made up his mind to change the subject, “yet, Dettlaff’s way with them is extraordinary… I have found ways to hide my scent not to frighten them.”

Regis did smell strongly of herbs, she thought; a mix of basil, sage, cinnamon, some other herb too – anise? A little vain, Regis cared for his appearance, but now she understood his true reasons were practical.

“Does it work on other creatures too?”

“Why, yes” he replied, “I have used it to hide my vampiric nature to animals such as hounds and cats. It may work on wolves or harpies, who knows? I might even sooth the temper of a rabid cave troll with my rapturous scent!”

She laughed. Regis always managed to lift her mood.

On a sudden, his smile vanished. He stared at something behind her. She turned to see what. Dettlaff stepped in front of her in a preternatural speed, sharp claws growing from his fingers.

A naked woman broke out from the bushes with a rustled sound. Her red hair and lithe body appeared human-like.

Rennaugh’s heartbeat accelerated. She dropped her sandwich to the ground.

No. Not again.

The alp glared at the other vampires.

“Well, well. What have we here?” Her clawed hand rested on her hip. “Vampires and a human, so cheerful together.”

Dettlaff’s chest rose and fell as he glared back at the creature in front of them. He retracted his claws and curled his hands into fists.

“What do you want?”

“Do not fret, Dettlaff! Had I wanted to hurt your little human pet, she’d be dead already.”

The icy tone of the female vampire chilled the blood in Rennaugh’s veins. She dug her nails into her palms. Nothing held her back from using her powers. Her determination sent currents of energy rippling through the air.

The alp hissed, fangs bared.

Regis stood to walk and stand beside Rennaugh. His hand rested on the string of the leather satchel crossing his chest.

“I don’t envy you ‘higher’ vampires,” the alp’s snake-like eyes narrowed. “Always attracted to humans, always repelled by them. So much like them, and yet so different… How has that worked out for you, Regis?”

A sting of pain flickered in the grey-haired vampire’s black eyes.

“What about you, Dettlaff? Found another human to satisfy your needs? All the while our sister is rotting in a cave in Touissant.”

Her voice hardened to granite at her last words.

“Your sister was wrong to attack her,” Dettlaff said, equally stony. “This human voluntarily sacrificed her blood to save her. She also helped to put an end to the poisoning of vampires in the region.”

The creature shifted in place. Translucence rippled on her skin in patches.

“Yes, she did. A death for a death, a life for a life. But know this, Dettlaff,” she hissed, “we refuse to act your mindless minions anymore. Not only higher vampires have codes of honour.”

She walked away, still eyeing them.

“We will never hear your cries for help again. A human life ends faster than the blink of an eye.”

In a whisper, the alp said: “You will be alone.”

She disappeared into the faded sunlight.

Neither of the vampires moved a muscle. Everything rested still and silent, except for the sound of the wind rustling branches of nearby trees. Regis put his hand on Dettlaff’s shoulder.

“You are not alone,” he said, his voice firm.

Rennaugh could see Dettlaff’s head sink to his chest.

She stiffened her jaw. Shouldn’t she rejoice? No more lesser vampires in her way to possess him, to be his only one. These vampire wenches, may they go straight to hell!

A wave of shame overcame her.

She had no right to rejoice. Dettlaff had a sense of belonging to the lesser vampires. They’d been his pack, his community, his family.

This was a punishment perhaps worse than death. She had pondered the right to claim his love and the sacrifices it would entail. She hadn’t realized the extent of those sacrifices until now. Perhaps she couldn’t, still.

She carefully walked up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. As she lifted her hands to cradle his face, she whispered: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Dettlaff grasped her hands. He squeezed them so tight it hurt, but she refused to flinch.

“Regis is right. You’re not alone. I’ll always be here.”

Her heart ached, knowing her mortality placed a cruel limit upon her promise.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dettlaff, have you spoken to her tonight?”
> 
> His companion grew uneasy, a glint of hesitation in his eyes.
> 
> “I – yes, I went up to her room…”
> 
> “And you left her in a fit of desperation and ire.”

Rennaugh ascended the stairs of an inn in Belhaven. The heels of her boots beat against the wood. She unlocked the door to her room and entered.

The room comprised of a simple bed with a thin mattress, a desk with a copper basin for washing up, and a chair. The night would be a chilly; she cast an appreciative glance on a plaid of sheep’s wool on the bed.

She walked up to the window and opened it. Cool air whiffed against her frame. From outside, she heard the rumbling sound of a wagon drawn over cobbled stones, and the bark of a stray dog.

From beneath, faint clinks of tankards reached her ears, together with a feminine laughter, and a melancholic tune played on a flute. She and her companions had entered the inn to find the atmosphere merry; the guests were drunk but not violent. She would have no trouble finding rest in this establishment.

She cringed at how the innkeeper turned from flirty to pitiful when she lowered her hood and asked for a room. The scar intersecting her left cheek often had that effect on people.

After washing up in the copper basin by the door, she rummaged her satchel and placed three objects on the bed; a book called _Introduction to Applied Magic_ , a chemise, and two letters, tied together with a string.

She undid the knot and flattened the first letter against the bedsheets. It still emanated a faint scent of lilac and gooseberries.

_Dear Triss,_

Rennaugh went directly to the part she’d read so many times. 

_I found a very old tome of Skellige lore, and no, I won’t tell you where, just know it was very hard to come by, it was all tattered as if someone had tried to destroy it,_

_Apparently, it is believed that on the Skellige isles, about a thousand years ago, there existed a sisterhood of powerful magic wielders, much like our dear lodge, that called themselves the Dathmori. The individual witches were called ixas, and especially powerful ixas were known as norna. They were known to be able to manipulate the elements and use telekinesis to bend the air to their will. Isn’t it fascinating! But then, without explanation, the ixas of the Dathmori disappeared, and here the story becomes very vague._

A sisterhood of magic wielders from Skellige. With powers like hers. Gone, seemingly without a trace.

Rennaugh was determined to know more of this sisterhood. Triss told her Yennefer of Vengerberg might still be on Ard Skellig. She promised to inform her of Rennaugh’s journey to the island. It was the only thing she could ground her hopes on.

A sudden chill made her skin break out in goose bumps. A thick mist entered the open window and crept along the floor.

Dettlaff materialized in front of her.

He walked up to the door and controlled the lock. She smiled and shook her head. He always cautioned regarding safety, but so did she.

He glanced at the letters.

“You must know them by heart now.”

Rennaugh nodded and folded the letters together in her satchel.

As he cleaned up and shaved, she watched him in silence from her position on the bed. A pressure augmented in her chest, like the expansion of a balloon.

“How are you? Are you all right?” Her hand trembled as she tucked a strand of hair behind an ear.

Dettlaff lowered his hands to grip the basin. His jaw clenched.

“If I told you that I’m in pain, Rennaugh, would it matter? It would change nothing.” He wiped his face with a linen cloth.

“It matters because I care for you,” she said, “because I know how much the lesser vampires meant to you.” She looked up and searched for his gaze. “Do you wish things were different?”

Her breath hitched. A part of her wished she could take her question back. Although he cared for her, she was merely human. A human who would grow old and die; who would leave him.

She was greedy for wanting him to love her. The alp’s voice still rung in Rennaugh’s mind _. You will be alone_. A cold knot formed in her chest.

He looked at her sternly and threw the cloth on floor.

“Do you, Rennaugh? Do you not wish you were with someone who understood this world, who didn’t hide from it? A real man, who could give you a real life?”

She stood up.

“I understand you are upset, Dettlaff. But please…”

“Yes, I wish things were different!”

She froze. Her heart pounded dully in her chest. There it was: all her fears in a few, harsh words.

“You wish you weren’t with a mortal,” she whispered.

He paced, raking a hand through his hair. His eyes strained from anguish when he saw the look in her eyes.

She took a few steps closer. She would look back on this moment as decisive for how things would unfold after. It was a moment where everything could change, there and then.

She could only bare her heart.

“I know what I want, Dettlaff. I want you. I know I’m asking for much, that it’s not fair. I want us to find a way…” She lifted her hand to touch his face.

He pulled back from her touch. The movement caused her to inhale sharply.

Dear Gods, she thought, am I losing him?

Another sentiment rose to settle beside her pain. These past months, she’d loved him with all the sincerity of her heart. She would gladly share her life with him. Perhaps it wasn’t enough, but it was all she had.

Did it mean nothing to him?

“You said you would come with me,” she said and squared her shoulders. “Anywhere, always.”

He shook his head, his jaw still tight, and backed towards the window.

“I – I can’t...”

“No, don’t you dare leave –“

She ran up to the window. A breath of condensation crept on the glass pane.

 

*

 

Regis overlooked Belhaven from a hilltop, holding a mug of herbal tea in his hand. The creaks of blades from a nearby windmill drowned the distant cawing of crows. To the north, the flows of the great river Yaruga reached his heightened senses.

He noticed little trace of the battle that hit this region in the advances of the Nilfgaardians twenty years ago. Bushes regrew over fields previously soaked by blood and trampled by iron hooves. An obelisk stood erected on a nearby hilltop to honour the memory of the fourteen fallen mages who fought against the Empire. Triss’ name was, mistakenly, among them.

The sight of the Yaruga filled him with melancholy. He was reminded of a battle on a bridge never told by historians, of companions lost but not forgotten.

“Ah, my friend,” Regis said as Dettlaff materialized close by and walked towards him, “how are you?”

“If you’re speaking of our encounter with our lesser sister, then I believe you know how I feel.”

Regis’ eyes conveyed compassion. His blood brother stopped beside him and folded his arms across his chest.

“I believe you are experiencing great loss. I am sorry.”

The eyes of the other vampire narrowed.

“Are you, Regis? Surely you must have anticipated this when you introduced us in the crypt? Was it not your intention?”

Regis didn’t move a muscle, but his heart clenched at the words of his friend.

“You are right, Dettlaff. I did bring Rennaugh to the crypt with an intention. That you would fall for her however, was beyond my imagination. In honesty, we both should have anticipated the attempt on her life by your bruxa.”

A thought took the breath out of Regis.

He had intended to appease his friend, and alter his feelings towards humans, turn his hatred into empathy. He thought a woman that shared some of their alienation, a human who was decent… was it a mistake? Had his true intention been to make Dettlaff alien to other vampires, like he was, and thereby secure their interdependence?

“Do you think I haven't told myself that _every day_?” Dettlaff growled. “That I am not aware I am at fault for Rennaugh nearly dying?”

To Regis’ surprise, Dettlaff transformed, and in a few hasty movements, he clawed his way down a tree. The rustle of its fallen branches echoed stark against the otherwise calm evening. Regis watched Dettlaff’s shoulders rise and sink with his agitated breath. Slowly, he transformed back to his human form.

Regis softly said his name.

The muscles in Dettlaff’s jaw tensed and relaxed.

“I love Rennaugh,” he said. “But loving her might be the worst thing that has happened to me, after Syanna.” He closed his eyes at his next words.

“I can’t bare the thought of her ultimately leaving me.”

“Where is this coming from, Dettlaff? You never doubted before,” Regis replied. “Nor with did you with Syanna. Is it the loss of our lesser brethren and sisters that cause such disbelief?”

“I made a colossal mistake with Syanna!”

Regis blinked at the outburst of his friend.

“I was an idiot! I didn’t think, like an animal! No, like a child. I lost control.” He shook his head. “I could never be so naive again.”

Dettlaff’s eyes burned.

“How do you do it, Regis? How do you blend into the human world so easily?”

Regis didn’t answer. 

“I can’t stand to be among people. This constant risk of exposure, this... tension.”

Regis nodded. He knew very well the strain of deception.

“I despise humans, Regis,” Dettlaff continued. “The way children starve on their streets, while fat merchants stuff their mouths full of roast lamb. The way they hack and slash at each other in their wars. The way they treat other races like second-class citizens…”

“We have it ourselves, Dettlaff; this hierarchy, this injustice.” Regis swirled the contents of his bowl. “Do you hear many of us complain of the distinction between higher and lesser? Why do so many of us claim noble birth, like my family?”

“Because we need to survive!” Dettlaff snarled.

“No, Dettlaff. You are one of very few vampires with this understanding of justice. Think of Orianna, for example. Not exactly the epitome of humanistic ideals.”

He looked at his blood brother kindly. Dettlaff’s black coat whisked in the gentle breeze.

“There is more to the human world than crudeness, Dettlaff. There is beauty, and art, and excellence, wisdom, and compassion. There is love. You know this. Tell me Dettlaff,” he tilted his head, “how many of your lesser vampire companions ever cared for your craft? How many were interested in your ideals? Are these not things Rennaugh love about you?”

Dettlaff didn’t answer. He stared at Regis with his shoulders tensed.

Regis took a sip of his brew. He thought of when they had found Rennaugh and the bruxa in the cave. Dettlaff was known to have a passionate temper, and Regis had often seen him act in affective outbursts. That day, he was cold. There was determination in his action, like in the ruins of Tesham Mutna – the night he killed Syanna.

“I have been meaning to ask you,” Regis said, “why did you kill the bruxa? You could have let her go, tell her to never come near you again.”

Dettlaff’s scowl deepened.

“No, Regis. You didn’t know her the way I did. She was not one to let go.”

He hesitated before continuing.

“When we were together, she reproved ’my love for humans’, as she called it. She kept telling me how Syanna had weakened me. She found humans to be a plague on this earth, like rats. ‘We should have killed them all long ago’, she once said.”

Regis said nothing. Such sentiments revolted him.

“She always encouraged me to integrate fully into the vampire community,” Dettlaff said. “After Syanna, I thought it was what I needed. But I was torn apart. Being with her left me… hollow. I think you can guess what she called you - ‘the traitor who fraternized with a witcher´. She no doubt believed she did me a favour in that cave.”

Regis kept swirling the contents of his mug. He heard the heaviness in Dettlaff’s words.

This was one of his favourite times of the day; the sunset, a faint shimmer in the horizon and the dark, starry sky above it that forebode the coming of night.

This dusk brought him no joy. His heart ached.

“She thought she helped you to be free. She knew of your past mortal love, after all.”

Dettlaff let his arms down from their crossed position. His eyes narrowed.

“It proves how little she knew me,” he growled. “I was already free.”

A great weight lifted from Regis’ chest. He stared at his companion with a look of wonder in his face.

Dettlaff folded his arms on his chest again. The sun disappeared below the treetops in the horizon. A flock of ravens broke free from the trees, cawing and flapping their wings.

“I fear Rennaugh is on a mission that will take her nowhere.” Dettlaff said, calmer now. “If she finds out nothing about this so called Dathmori, it will break her. She isn’t looking for this sisterhood as much as she is looking for a piece of herself, to make her feel less alone.”

“Dettlaff, have you spoken to her tonight?”

His companion grew uneasy, a glint of hesitation in his eyes.

“I – yes, I went up to her room…”

“And you left her in a fit of desperation and ire.”

Dettlaff eyes widened at the stony timbre in Regis’ voice.

“You left her, believing you wish to return to the life you had before you met her. I suggest you go back, Dettlaff, and make sure she knows you care.”

Dettlaff stared at him.

“Do you not understand?” Regis continued in a calm demeanour, cold even. “You have hurt humankind, in ways that may be beyond repair. But this human still believes in you. She accepts you, and loves you, not for your humanity or your monstrosity, but for _you_ ; for everything you are in between.”

Dettlaff backed.

“I will go.”

“Do, and pray she is still there to forgive you.”

Dettlaff dematerialized. His fog swirled towards Belhaven. Regis stood impassive as the trail of mist became undiscernible among the bushes of junipers and genatia on the ground.

 

*

 

Dettlaff’s heart soared when he realized Rennaugh had left the window slightly open.

She lay asleep on the bed, her eyelashes casting shadows on her cheeks. Her lips were closed and still, her face pale. He could see she had been crying.

He sat on the chair next to the bed, leaned forward to let his elbows rest on his thighs and hid his face in his hands.

Of course, the alp knew how to use her words like a knife to cut into his heart. _You will be alone_. The words tossed him into an abyss of empty space.

Alone. Like those nights in Metinna when he searched for Rhena – Syanna, pulled into a growing pit of desperation like a fish caught by the hook.

His eyes followed the outline of the scar on Rennaugh’s cheek. He remembered her bound by tight leather straps, her wrists bruised. A wave of rage and tenderness seared through him.

The sight of her breathing in a regular, heavy rhythm helped soothe the rough palpitations of his heart.

This was no fairy tale of happily ever after. Forever had different meanings for vampires and humans. But Regis was right.

To be near her always gave him a sense of serenity. The dark pit of hate and fear pulling him in had nearly closed.

That night outside Cintra, when Rennaugh first told him she cared, he’d been terrified. He thought the rage and pain that twisted his soul formed part of him, inescapably. With her, he realized they were walls he’d built around himself from having his trust abused and his heart broken. She climbed over them like they were simple fences to seek what laid behind.

He didn’t know who he was behind those walls anymore. But with her, he might have the courage to find out.

He caressed her cheek. The touch woke her up, eyelids fluttering. She inhaled and sat up. Her hair messy, the chemise she loved to sleep in wrapped around her body; her beauty overwhelmed him.

To his surprise, she lunged at him with her fists.

“You bastard!” she cried out. “You left me! you left me to believe I might never see you again!”

He grabbed her wrists.

He was an idiot. He hadn’t left with the intention of never returning. But of course, she couldn’t have known.

“Forgive me, Rennaugh, please –” he bent down on to the bed to pin her hands against the mattress. His lips met gritted teeth.

“I’ll never leave again. You were right. I wish you weren’t mortal. But I want this – us.”

Her lips softened, salty from tears.

“I want you,” he whispered. “I am not alone as long as you are with me.”

A scent of tangerine and cedar. He knew it came from the soap she brought from Touissant. Sensing its fragrance on her skin always caused his groin to knot.

He let go of her wrists to cup her face.

She raked her nails into the leather of his back as he traced his lips down to the curve of her neck, whispering words of remorse. His hand trembled as it trailed down her body.

When he returned to her mouth, she began to tug at the buckles of his coat, almost desperately.

They knew this language. Words could come later.

Still kissing, she removed his coat and tunic. Dettlaff pulled her chemise over her head and let her push his breeches down his hips. The room filled with the sound of their combined breaths.

He leaned over to pin her body to the mattress with his weight, to claim her mouth again. A pained whine escaped her as his hip dug into her lower abdomen. It broke their desperation.

Worryingly, he lifted his face from hers and shifted to align their bodies more comfortable.

Their eyes met. Rennaugh nodded and smiled, faintly. A glint shining in her eye, she whispered,

“Don’t stop.”

Dettlaff leaned over to kiss her, softer this time. He imagined being inside her, her heat enveloping him. The thought sent a bolt of fire right to his erection. She must have felt it – perhaps she read his mind – for she opened her thighs and steered him inside her with her hand.

He drew a sharp inhale between his teeth as he gradually sank into her, struggling not to lose control.

Since their encounter in the crypt, he’d known she would feel like this; so perfect, like she was made for him. He’d tried to ignore the feeling, but it kept rising under the surface.

They began the rocking rhythm of their bodies, her legs wrapped around his waist. She eventually encouraged him to pick up a rougher pace and clung to him as if holding on would prevent them from drowning.

But drowning was exactly what he did, in their movements, in her heartbeat against his, in her sounds. He bucked into her, hard, and she cried out.

Faint waves of energy spilled from her hands to send lustful shivers down his back to where their hips met. There was something new about her, a different flow to her blood.

He felt her getting close by the way her moans became more vocal, by the way her thighs quivered.

He intertwined their fingers.

“Rennaugh, open your eyes. Look at me.”

She did as he said.

 

They laid ensnared, their chests heaved in sync. The patter of rain on the window panes enveloped them. He kissed her damp forehead and caressed her hair, relieved to be close, to have access to her.

To be this close always gave him the sensation of standing in the eye of a storm.

She broke free from their embrace enough for him to wrap his arm around her neck, his hand on her shoulder.

“I wish I could give you more than this life,” she whispered.

“I know.” He searched for the right words. “Regis once told me most people foolishly live either in the past or in the future. We have now. It’s all I can ask.”

He felt her steadfast heartbeat against his own.

“I don’t wish to repeat the mistakes I made with Syanna,” he said.

“I’m not her.”

“I know.”

He pulled her closer.

“I will go with you to Skellige, if you still wish me to.”

She wrapped her arm around his chest. “I do.”

He let the silence, warm and sublime, momentarily enclose them.

“After you have met the sorceress, how will you learn more of this sisterhood?”

“I’m not sure.” She sighed. “I’m going to have to figure it out.”

“I…”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Their eyes met. “It matters little to me whether you have a plan or not.”

She smiled and squeezed his shoulder with her hand. She moved closer to let her lips brush against the side of his face, warm and impossibly soft.

“You know,” she smiled, “the innkeeper did say ‘no men in the room.’”

He snorted; a short, jovial puff of air through his nose.

“He didn’t say anything about vampires.”

She laughed softly against his neck. The sound sewed together the wound opened between them, one stich at a time.

It didn’t take long until she fell asleep again.

Pulling his arm from underneath her head, careful not to wake her, he sat up on the bed. He pulled his breeches and tunic back on, took his coat from the chair, and draped it across her body.

A whine escaped her. He frowned. Still sleeping, she shifted in place, eyebrows furrowed.

A nightmare? Dettlaff didn’t know what they were but imagined them as scenes of horror in the vision of humans who slept.

Rennaugh drew a sharp inhale of breath and lifted her hand. The movement sent a wave of energy blazing through the room.

A jug filled with water shattered behind Dettlaff, its contents spraying his back. Swiftly, he leaned forward to prevent the broken pieces of clay from raining over her.

Rennaug’s agitated breath wavered, until her movements stilled. Small currents of energy ebbed though her hands. Still sleeping, she mewled his name.

A cool trickle of water ran down Dettlaff’s neck. Broken pieces of clay fell to the ground from his wet tunic. He lifted his hand to pull a shard nailed to his neck, staring at its bloodied tip. His skin tingled as the cut closed itself.

He carefully cleaned the floor from the scattered shards of the jug.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What would it be like to love someone who cannot die? To love someone, knowing they will die, while you must go on? I imagine it wouldn’t be all peaches and roses. This is a major theme I wish to explore in this fic.
> 
> The Dathmori are inspired by a group of female force sensitives in the Star Wars universe called [the Nightsisters](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Dathomir), who live on a planet called Dathomir.
> 
> If you’d like to know my vision of how Sylvia Anna’s and Dettlaff’s relationship unfolded, I wrote [this short fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13359285). Also supplementary, not fundamental!
> 
> I’m inspired by a lot of things when I write; other fics, different media, science, music… [Here’s a song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PfWJuX5n3QA) that has inspired the fic in general. I will link to songs that has inspired specific chapters in the notes.
> 
> [Gifspiration](https://namesonboats.tumblr.com/post/175035472950) to this chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know you want to see them.” He frowned. “I think it’s unwise, Rennaugh. We shouldn’t dwell longer in this city than necessary.”

Regis returned at daybreak to meet his companions. The vampires didn’t speak much, but Regis nodded to convey his pleasure to see them together. The trio fetched their horses and continued their journey towards the Yaruga.

As they reached Sodden, Regis and Dettlaff sold their horses for a sum large enough to pay the captain of a merchant craft to take them along the river to Cintra city. From there, they would find another ship to take them to Ard Skellig.

When Rennaugh wasn’t looking, Dettlaff pulled the other vampire close and spoke of the incident with the broken jug.

“It is imperative she doesn’t hurt herself or anyone else during her sleep,” Regis said. “We should tell her. I will do what I can to help.”

Rennaugh embraced the grey mare she had named Empress and let her forehead rest against horse’s neck. The mare let out a friendly snort. She was a loan from Geralt, the witcher who saved her life in Kovir, and was to be resent to Corvo Bianco via a reliable courier. Empress became her good friend during the series of events after she arrived in Touissant. Rennaugh would miss her.

She thought of her other friends back at Corvo Bianco, determined to nurture her friendship with Triss, the only other magic wielder she’d ever met.

They boarded the craft in the afternoon. The ship shifted as the sails set, parting pond lilies and seaweed at the keel. Upset mallards honked and clattered their wings as the banks of the great river grew increasingly distant.

Although Rennaugh had spent most of her life in a city famous for its bustling harbour, a centre point of maritime trade routes through its strategic position by the mouth of the Yaruga, she had but set foot on a boat once before. Shel held onto Dettlaff to keep balance, smiling at her poor sea legs. He extended a hand to her lower back for extra support.

She indulged in his care for her. Public embraces were frowned upon but after the night before, closeness felt like quenching thirst.

Leaning into his embrace, a sudden wave of nausea hit her. She broke loose from the vampire’s arms and ran to the gunnel of the ship to empty the contents of her stomach into the river.

“Rennaugh?” Dettlaff came up to her, his eyebrows knitted in worry, “are you all right?”

Around them, the crew of the ship laughed and whistled while making clever remarks about landsmen.

Eyes closed, she kept her head between her arms to let the queasiness subside. She scrunched her nose at the taste of vomit in her mouth.

“Yes,” she confirmed to her lover, “I’m fine. It must be something I ate…”

A shiver ran down her spine. This nausea, this fatigue; was it not -

Regis interrupted her train of thought.

“Here, dear,” he handed her a cruet of fresh water. “Should we find a seat, perhaps?”

She rinsed her mouth with the water and gratefully accepted his proposal. Dettlaff sat next to her, observing her pale visage for more signs of seasickness.

Regis handed her a handful of pennyroyal leaves.

“Here, these will help against your mal de mer. Chewing them should do the trick.”

A trained barber-surgeon, Regis had extensive knowledge in how to cure ailments and was a formidable alchemist. Since a few month back, Rennaugh was his apprentice, but didn’t know simply chewing pennyroyal leaves could alleviate nausea. The taste of the herb refreshed her, and soon the stomach ache subdued.

Dettlaff peered around to ensure no one could overhear them.

“Rennaugh, we need to speak of something. Your powers - they manifest while you sleep.”

Her eyes widened.

“In my sleep – how?”

“Yesterday, you let out currents of energy. It made the air… bend. You shattered a jug with a movement of your hand, going through what you humans call a nightmare.”

She raised her hand over her mouth.

“I don’t know how to control it.”

Regis frowned in a mix of comfort and strictness.

“You must find a way. The witch hunts may be over, but magic wielders are still frowned upon. Especially women mages are unpopular on the Skellige isles. If we could understand the cause of the abruptness of your powers… Perhaps our infamous bruxa triggered something?”

He arched an eyebrow at his companions in an amused expression. “Perhaps it is related to your, shall we call it, extensive exploration of your magic abilities during those weeks after we returned from Brokilon?”

Rennaugh’s cheeks glowed.

Of course Regis knew about those blissful weeks after Dettlaff accepted her love. Claiming to be out training to better control her powers, they’d spent most of that ‘training’ in bed. Through her embarrassment, the memory sent lustful sparks down her arms.

“There certainly was magic happening,” Dettlaff said, deadpan.

Both companions eyed him in surprise. His face remained motionless, apart from a glint in his eyes.

Rennaugh forgot about her powers, their journey, and her ambition to find out more regarding the sisterhood of magic wielders. Affection overcame her.

Regis chuckled.

“Hm, yes well,” the grey-haired vampire cleared his throat, “the issue of your powers manifesting as you sleep is still at hand. Perhaps meditation would do the trick? We will stay with you as you sleep, or at least one of us, to wake you should it happen again.”

Rennaugh nodded.

 

*

 

In his quarters, Bran woke up, sweating and nauseous. He remembered only the end of his dream; a body rocked by tidal waves, white hair flowing like pale seaweed in the current.

He wanted to scream, to warn her, but tried to calm down.

The pale winter sun rose and shed its light through the window. He might as well get up.

 

*

 

The craft made it to Cintra harbour early morning the day after their departure. Rennaugh rubbed her eyes as she walked along the deck. She had found a near fail-proof way to contain her powers during the night: she imagined being enclosed by a shell, like a hatchling inside an egg. Dettlaff awoke her once when currents of energy spilled out of her hands as another nightmare rode her chest.

She often had the same dream. A faint light skimming through the opening of a cave. Grey stone walls surrounding her. Her hands bound above her head. A warm breath against her face, and the sharp pain of a claw cutting into her face.

She shook her head to bring her back to reality.

The other passengers cleared out and they joined to disembark.

She gazed over the city she had spent her teenage years. When her family moved to Cintra, the city still suffered from the war a decade earlier. With financial aid from the Emperor, the affluent areas, along with the castle, were rebuilt. Cintra castle loomed over the harbour in all its splendour, its slim towers shot into the clouded sky. The alabaster corbels, ramparts, and arrow loops contrasted against the dirt and bustle of the harbour area.

Rennaugh wondered if the new Empress had visited the city since she took the throne. The people of Cintra displayed ambivalence towards her, their hatred towards the Empire still smouldering after the war. The granddaughter of the lioness Calanthe should have the right to claim Cintra’s throne, but although the nobility as well as the people valued her bloodline more than they hated Nilfgaard, the Cintran law of succession excluded women.

When Rennaugh learned of Geralt and Cirilla’s history, she’d nearly fallen off her chair in shock. He told the bulk of story back at Corvo Bianco, and Triss filled in the details.

Growing up in the outskirts of Cintra, Rennaugh heard of the tale of the witcher and the child surprise. It was another fairy tale, like the Striga, or Renfri. As far as she’d known, Cirilla was the wife of the former emperor, a young woman who later died in cancer, not his actual daughter.

The screech of sea gulls drowned the bustling noise of the fish market, full of citizens already in this early hour.

They passed a lady who pushed a wagon of mussels and cockles, a few fiss-tech addicts, children skipping beside their parents, their breeches and kirtles dirtied by the patches of mud of the street.

Regis offered to go to the bank to exchange their Nilfgaardian florens to Ducats, the currency used on the Skellige isles. She and Dettlaff accepted the assignment to find them a ship to take them to Ard Skellig. Rennaugh also needed to visit an herbalist to restock her inventory, and if they had the time, she wanted to visit the book shop by the city square to find more tomes on magic.

“I’ll find us a ship,” Dettlaff assured her. “Go acquire what you need.”

She smiled. “Thank you.”

Before she could turn to proceed to the city square, he grabbed her by the arm.

“I know you want to see them.” He frowned. “I think it’s unwise, Rennaugh. We shouldn’t dwell longer in this city than necessary.”

He always seemed to know her thoughts – something of a sixth sense. She couldn’t hide her wish to meet her family, to confront her mother and step-father, even though she’d promised her mother not to return.

She tried to find the right words to justify her ambition, when he let go of his grasp of her arm.

“Be careful. Meet me later, by the docks.”

Relieved, she lifted her eyes to his. She fought an impulse to kiss him, but whispered, “until later” and turned to leave.

To her surprise, he pulled her back, cupped the back of her head, and kissed her. She grabbed his coat, eyes closed. Their eyes met before he cast a menacing gaze around, daring passers-by to comment. Besides a child who broke out in a giggle, nobody did.

Smiling, she readjusted the hood over her head and headed for the market place.

Rennaugh knew the districts around the harbour and Lowtown, the name of the poorer parts of the city, by heart. They consisted of storey houses built by grey stone and bricks, intersected by dark planks. The parts she walked today, the city centre and further up the hillside, the affluent areas, sported houses of creamy colors; red and yellow granite, milky white facades covered in ivy, colourful windowpanes and in the spring and summers; rows of hollyhocks and red roses.

The river separated the richer areas, including the chantry and the castle, from the bustle of the market place, the city square and the poorer areas. She had at times as a girl escaped to peek at the lustrous smocks of the upper-class women, rich merchant’s daughters, and high-profile prostitutes.

A hub of international trade, Cintra boasted many diverse people of different nations and races. As a teenager, she often peered in fascination at the dark-skinned merchants from Ofier with their beautiful garments and impressive sabres. She peeked at visitors from Skellige and searched for any resemblance in their faces and demeanour to her own.

A memory from the area overcame her. She and her mother bought cod for dinner at the harbour. They made a detour to the market place before venturing back home. As they walked around, Rennaugh cast yearning glances at merchant stands of pralines and candied fruit, Zerrakanian silk, spotted fur from Zangwebar and silver bands sold by dwarves from Makaham.

If only she could afford the smallest of trinket to give to her mother. She never wore jewellery, not even a ring on her finger although married. They had no money for such extravagances.

If only she could afford those honey-covered figs the merchants sold from clay jars. The thought of its sweet taste made her mouth water.

Why should these people have all and she and her family nothing?

As they walked past a stand of jewellery sold by an elegant dwarf with a red beard, she made a tiny motion with her hand, and caught a silver necklace. Heart pounding, she swiftly tucked it under her apron. She beamed in triumph.

Until blinding shame overcame her.

Her mother stopped in surprise as she confessed her crime, tears flowing.

Thinking back on the scene, Rennaugh lifted a hand to her face and cringed. It was the first and only time her mother gave her a wallop.

Her mother lectured her on her morals. “I will not stand to have brought up a thief, do you hear me Rennaugh. You think you are better than others for having your… for being able to do what you can do. Well you’re not.”

She didn’t think she was better. She knew it made her worse than normal people, a hazard, a spark that could set the house on fire.

Shaking off the memory with a shudder, she opened the door to the The Silver Leaf, known to be the most well-stocked herbalist store in the city. The sunlight shone through the red and green colors of the windowpanes to give the room a soft light. Pots of juniper stood alongside jars and compartments filled with dried plants and seeds. Open crates of different herbs laid on display for customers on the floor. Rennaugh loved the fresh smell of herbalist’s stores.

The owner of the company, a middle-aged man of a corpulent figure, sorted different boxes animal fats. One other customer dwelled in the store, a hafling with a red pixy pulled down his wrinkled forehead, studying packages of dried spices.

“Good day, what will it be?” The herbalist asked. Rennaugh stepped closer to the counter. “Don’t believe them charlatans selling recipes for love potions! It’s all lies…” He silenced as Rennaugh lowered her hood, his eyes softer now.

“Perhaps something to ease the ache, hm? I have a fresh batch of Beggartick blossoms coming this mornin’. Mix the seeds with ergot seeds and bear fat and you’ll have a local anodyne.”

Rennaugh smiled. “Thank you, but I need pennyroyal leaves, lots of them… and some celandine, aspen and mistletoe… oh, and some rubedo, please.” She searched the crates for the ingredients she needed.

“Planning a trip on the sea, eh?” the herbalist asked as he filled packages of the requested herbs. “Lot of herbs to prevent nausea. However, be careful - mixing pennyroyals with aspen can be a hazard to child-bearing women, and to children of course.”

Rennaugh cringed internally at how her laughter came out too keen. “That won’t be an issue. Thank you!”

She paid the man the requested amount, grabbed the packages of herbs and spices and left the establishment. She tried to ignore the pounding of her heart.

She crossed the square of the market place, her gaze directed towards the book shop at the southern corner. She had never sat foot there, but often dreamed of what it would be like.

A small bell fastened to the door tingled as she stepped inside. She lifted her chin to gaze in awe at all the rows of bookshelves. The room had two stories separated by a balcony. Shelves filled with tomes reached all the way from the planks to the roof with its wooden beams elongated from one wall to the next. Sunlight shone through windows on the roof, penetrating the thick air down at the first storey. Tallow candles hidden in colourful glass containers – Rennaugh had never seen such lanterns before – served as light.

A woman dressed in a white kirtle and a grey linen smock tied with a leather belt peeked at her through a pair of round spectacles balancing on the tip of her nose. On the top of her grey hair, she wore another pair of spectacles.

“Welcome to Madam Anna’s Leaflets and Lore. Are you looking for anything specific, luv?”

Rennaugh closed her mouth. She cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. The witch hunts are over, she whispered in her mind.

“Good day, I am looking for books on magic.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and licked her lips.

The woman, scribbling on what seemed to be a receipt, placed her quill on the desk. “This is a store for novels, luv. Fiction. Prose. I’ve got poems, some biographies, and a few copies of famous ballads, but no books on magic.” She peered at Rennaugh through her round glasses. “That type of literature was banned for long, as you might know.”

“Yes, I –“

“Had I sold books on magic during the witch hunts, I would have done it underground. Nothing I despise more than bans on literature. That’s how you know you’ve got a tyrant ruling, or an oppressive ideology at your door. When they ban books, that is.”

“I see, very well. Um, do you have any books on Skellige history, perhaps?”

“I said novels, lass! Do you have ears? Well, I do have a few travel books. Would that suffice? Let me find them for you.”

She watched as the woman, surprisingly agile, climbed a tall ladder up the wall to peer at a few volumes of books high above ground. Rennaugh redirected her gaze to a tome on the desk and let her fingers run along its title. Moribundia, The Vampires Last Likeness. She opened it, swallowed, and read a random page.

_Isabella grabbed his wrist and bade he stop. The touch of her hand was so tender, his heart newly began to beat anew after_

What was this utter hogwash?

“There!”

Rennaugh jumped as the lady with the glasses slapped two leather-covered tomes on the desk.

“The Lonesome World: Guide to An Skellig, and Skellige: Its History and Geography.” She motioned at the opened book on the desk.

“Or perhaps you’ve taken interest in romance novels?” The lady grinned.

 “The history of Skellige will be fine!” Rennaugh rummaged through her leather satchel, “how much?”

The lady with the glasses told her the price. Rennaugh’s shoulders sank. Oh.

“Yes, it is expensive, as it is rare: first edition!”

“I’m afraid I simply don’t have the funds. Thank you for your help anyway, Madam.”

“Anytime, luv. You’re sure you’re not interested in the romance novel?” her hoarse laughter shook the twin glasses on her head.

Shaking her head, Rennaugh left the store. The bell on the door rung as she closed it behind her and stepped out on the cobble stones of the street.

 

She found Dettlaff at the uttermost pier, next to a ship called a caravel. It had three masts, rigged with squared sails, a high sterncastle thrusting out over the bow and an impressive dragon’s head beneath the bowspit. She estimated its length to be at least 30 meters. Brandished into the vessel’s side, the name _Hrynghorn_ settled below the bow.

“This ship will sail early tomorrow morning towards Ard Skellig. She takes both passengers and cargo. We can stay the night on her, although she has no cabins. I have placed our packing on the lower deck. The crew will watch over it.”

It was perfect.

“We’re going to Skellige,” she breathed.

“Are you still certain of this?” He came closer to touch her arms. She cupped his elbows.

“I am. Are you still sure you wish to come with me?”

“Yes. But I wonder, Rennaugh. Where will it leave you?”

Looking into his eyes, she searched her heart for the right words.

“With answers. Regis is right. If I find out there is nothing to know – it would be an answer in itself.” 

His eyes moved like a slowly dancing flame.

“You didn’t see them.”

She shook her head, turning to the sound of a familiar voice behind them.

“Ah, there you are. I take it this is our ship? Excellent!”

They let go of each other and turned to Regis who walked across the wharf, his semi-gloved hand on the string of his satchel. He nodded a greeting.

“I trust you have restocked, Rennaugh?”

“Yes,” she decided not to mention her failed visit to the book store. “How was your trip to the city?”

“Oh lovely, the market is quite something! I found this book at an old antiquarian not far from the chantry, see:”

He presented her Skellige: Its History and Geography. “Fitting, wouldn’t you say?”

To the vampires’ surprise, she burst out in laughter.

“It’s perfect, Regis. May I borrow it from you after you have finished reading it?”

Blinking, he affirmed her request.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank everyone who has read, given kudos and commented so far. You guys are the best!
> 
> This fic diverges from canon in several ways, most notably by how the druidic circle of Skellige is exclusive for men, how magic wielders are unpopular on Skellige, and how the witch hunts reached as far south as Cintra. These divergences are purely for plot reasons.
> 
> I’ve modelled my idea of Cintra city partly after [ Kirkwall](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Kirkwall) in Dragon Age II, partly after Dublin. [Alive, alive oh...](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Molly_Malone)
> 
> The excerpt from [Moribundia, The Vampires Last Likeness](http://witcher.wikia.com/wiki/Moribundia:_The_Vampire%27s_Last_Likeness) is taken from the witcher wiki. I couldn’t resist. ^^


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An amber pendant, the size of a floren, hung from the silver chain. Inside the deep red stone shone a fiery tendril, gleaming in the warm light of the afternoon sun. A slender silver snake surrounded the amber, biting its own tail to form an oval.
> 
> Rennaugh’s mouth fell open. It was beautiful.

Regis, Dettlaff and Rennaugh lunched at a tavern in the harbour. They ordered seafood, grilled and seasoned with lemon and sea salt, garlic and olive oil, accompanied by corn-flower bread and fresh tomatoes. Regis drank wine, Dettlaff tried the local Faro. Rennaugh feared another attack of nausea and drank water.

The vampires retired to the _Hrynghorn_ after their meal, drained by the exposure to the crowd in the city. Dettlaff remained silent when she ventured back into the city after escorting them to the caravel. He gave her an expression she interpreted as, once again, ‘be careful’.

She directed her steps towards her old home.

 

Her family’s apartment laid on the bottom of a grey three-storey house a few blocks from the harbour. They shared the street with a few other tenement houses, a warehouse, and a small tool shop.

Rounding the corner to their street, her heart soared from the thought of meeting her little sisters again. She longed to embrace them. She hadn’t seen them in a year – would they have changed? her scar – would it frighten them?

Rennaugh had a practised line for those inquiring how she got it. She claimed a witcher saved her from an attacking harpy - a story close enough to the truth.

The aroma of newly baked bread filled the air; perhaps her mother was baking? A stray cat meowed, sprinting over the iron-cladded feet of two guards patrolling the area. She quickly averted her face.

Her step-father once threatened her mother to tell the city guards her eldest daughter was a freak. The old habit to hide from them died hard.

She approached their front door. The first thing to strike her as odd was the absence of her mother’s curtains. She peeked through the glass of the window, only to find it full of unfamiliar furniture.

The table, the beds, the drawer, the mats on the floor, all belonging to another family.

“Rennaugh?”

She twitched her head. The voice came from an open window of the opposite house. A grey-haired woman retracted from the window and disappeared, only to reappear at her open door.

“Clara!”

“Come, dear,” the woman said, and opened her arms after tucking her knitted scarf tighter around her shoulders.

Rennaugh ran up to be squeezed against a generous bosom. Her former neighbour smelled of thyme, tobacco and sweat.

Clara was a widow who often babysat Rennaugh’s sisters when Rennaugh and her mother took various employment. She had soft hands, a burly laugh and smoked the pipe.

The woman motioned her to get inside, a kind and pitiful expression on her face.

“Clara, where are they?”

“They moved, dear. By the end of summer.” She gestured towards a chair by her table, handed Rennaugh and earthenware mug and started to prepare a pot of tea. Its herbal scent mixed with the smell of Clara’s pink geraniums standing in the window sills.

Rennaugh sat, dumbfounded.

“Moved – where?”

Clara hesitated.

“Your stepfather found out – he knew of your visit earlier this summer. He prompted Bergphóra to confess she’d met you. He forced them to leave and forbade her to tell anyone where they moved.”

Rennaugh’s mug fell to pieces against the wooden floor.

Flushed, she bent down to clean up the mess. Her neighbour squatted to help her.

“I’m sorry.” Rennaugh wiped her nose on the back of her hand.

“Don’t be, lass. It’s understandable for you to be upset. I’m sorry to give you such unwelcome news.”

They stood up, the pieces of broken clay in their hands. Clara took the debris from Rennaugh and threw it in a waste basket.

She walked to a cupboard and returned with a bundled cloth.

“Bergphóra knew you would come back. She bade me to give you this.”

Wrapped in the cloth laid two carved horses, one a shade lighter than the other. Exquisitely made, she could still savour the aromatic oil rubbed onto their surfaces.

They were gifts to her sisters, made by Dettlaff.

A warm, fat tear fell on Rennaugh’s cheek.

Did they ever receive them?

Underneath the horses, hidden in the linen cloth, laid something cold. She twisted her finger around a silver cord. She first thought it was the necklace she stole all those years ago at the market, but no; her mother returned it.

An amber pendant, the size of a floren, hung from the silver chain. Inside the deep red stone shone a fiery tendril, gleaming in the warm light of the afternoon sun. A slender silver snake surrounded the amber, biting its own tail to form an oval.

Rennaugh’s mouth fell open. It was beautiful. She couldn’t understand how her mother had managed to hide it from her step-father.

Clara sat at the table, stuffing her pipe. Rennaugh bent down to embrace her.

“Thank you, Clara,” she said and placed the horses and the necklace in her satchel. “If my sisters, or my mother ever come here again, please let them know I came by looking for them. Will you?”

The grey-haired woman agreed, eyes watery.

Rennaugh left Clara a note where she scribbled down the address to Corvo Bianco. Should her sisters ever want to find her, Barnabus-Basil could redirect the letters. 

With a good bye, she grasped the handle of the front door.

“He was a vile man for throwing you out, Rennaugh,” Clara muttered. “I know you’re a mage. Still, it gave him no right.”

Rennaugh stilled her hand.

“Shame the witch hunts reached this far south. Most children learn to honour the fourteen of the hill. But not you, nor your sisters. ‘All the wars, all evil is the result of mages meddling in politics,’ he said. He may have hated magic. Not everyone does.”

She smiled.

“Go, dear, and live well.”

 

Dettlaff met with her on the upper deck of the caravel. Upon seeing her expression, he embraced her.

“He’s taken them away. He found out I came to see her and forced them to move. Nobody knows where they’ve gone.”

She let go of his embrace to reach for her satchel and withdraw the toy horses.

“He didn’t let my sisters keep these to remember me.”

He shook his head and embraced her again. “I’m sorry.”

Her eyes were dry. The animosity weaved a cold web of resentment in her chest. She had promised herself to stop hating her step-father, to move on, but she would never forgive him for this.

“He hated magic,” she breathed, “he hated me. I would have liked to tell him – there are others like me, who live good lives. They have respect – love. There are schools. He made me believe those things were impossible for me! That what I am would bring me nothing but shame and scorn.”

Dettlaff remained silent. He didn’t tell Rennaugh she would never have been able to attend the school for mages in Aretuza. Before it was destroyed in the witch hunts, it was mainly for girls from the Redanian upper classes – the fee cost a small fortune.

“Do you wish for us to look for them – to find them?”

“No,” she replied, “we have used almost all our funds for this trip. I – I can’t stop now.”

“Do not worry about money, Rennaugh.”

He bored his eyes in her.

“I will kill him, if you wish. Seek him out – I would do it for you.”

She froze.

Dettlaff had killed for another before, the woman he once loved – so she could satisfy her need for vengeance.

“No.”

She let go of her grasp of his arm to gingerly place her fingers on his jawline.

“I will never ask you to kill for me.”

He remained silent.

She lowered her hand and gazed back on the outlines of the city.

“I’d like to think my step-fathers fear came from ignorance. Perhaps he wanted _me_ to stay ignorant, so I wouldn’t use my powers to hurt anyone.”

Her hands grasped the wood of the ships gunnel hard enough for her knuckles to whiten.

“But if I find out he is abusing her again, I will kill him myself,” she whispered.

At those words, something dark sprawled in her veins, like spilled ink.

He took his hand from her back to let it rest on hers.

“I hope you never will. I know you think of those men in the fortress. It haunts you.”

“I did what I had to do.”

“Don’t say that, Rennaugh. Don’t harden yourself.”

He pushed his hand through his hair.

“I’ll never forget the sight of you walking on that bailey. Your eyes burned with hate. When I realized you believed De Challant had killed me, I felt such dread. I didn’t want you to kill him in cold blood. You were not to become like me, a hated monster. Not you.”

She stared at him, chest aching.

Some moments were too large for words.

 

Later, Rennaugh opened the packet of herbs from her pouch and swirled several aromatic leaves into a bowl of steaming water. The liquid turned saffron, brick-red, before it settled in a deep, ruby tone. She knew it signalled the aspen mixed with the dried root of mistletoe and pennyroyal would have effect.

She reached for the bowl to place it against her lips. Her hands trembled.

The content swirled, thick like blood.

A few drops of the liquid spilled as she put the bowl back down on the table.

 

The next morning, she pulled the pendant from her satchel and placed it around her neck. The stone hung with a comforting weight against her chest.

She let her fingers outline the contours of the silvery snake as the ship sailed away from the wharf. The towers of Cintra castle disappeared in the fog.

She didn’t manage to keep her breakfast.

 

*

 

In the crypt, the sermon with the druidic brethren began according to tradition; lightning of tallow candles, chanting in a low, melodic tune. The hierophant burned holy herbs to spread a scent to signify the modron’s breath and lead them in recital of the ancient druidic code.

 

Where there is ignorance – there will be knowledge.

Where there is passion – there will be harmony.

Where there is chaos – there will be order.

Through balance, we will know peace.

 

Haerviu lifted his arms to the members of the Skellige druidic circle.

“Brothers,” he said, “you have seen it in billows of the northern lights, in the darkened fins of the trout, you have seen the signs in the jagged horns of the reindeers and in the drowner’s teeth. Ever since the arrival of the sorceress, something has been amiss. Nature is calling to us for healing, for care. Join me in our new chant.”

 

Chaos disrupts order

We will instil balance,

Harmony

Serenity again

Where there is imbalance – justice will be done

 

To add a verse to the druidic code was a hierophant’s right, Bran thought. But to do it without any input from the brethren... The arrival of the sorceress? Skellige had problems long before that.

He peeked at the other druids in the hall. Fritjof, the vaedermakar, didn’t join in the new chant either, along with a few more. The Hierophant repeated the verse. Soon the hall reverberated with the voices of the collective.

 

After the sermon, the Hierophant approached Bran.

“I wanted to ask you if you’ve had any more visions after the other week. Any dreams?”

“No visions, Hierophant. Dreams, yes…” Bran wanted to trust his leader, to reveal the inner workings of his mind.

“I’ve dreamt of her. White hair. Is it her, Hierophant? Is it Vanadhis?”

The elder druid gave him a sad smile.

“I advise you not to discuss these matters with Sigrdrifa, Bran. The priestesses don’t need to know of our concerns yet.”

“Hierophant?”

The elder placed his wrinkled hand on the feathered mantle over Bran’s shoulders.

“I’ve agreed to let you help with the preparations for Walpurgis with the priestesses, Bran. You are a magnificent musician and Sigrdrifa is grateful for your contribution to the hymns. But women and men of the faith should not consort too often, or too much. It disturbs our mission.”

Warmth crept up Brans neck to settle on his cheeks.

The Hierophant leaned closer.

“Women,” he said in a deep voice, “are the embodiment of chaos. Through schooling and training of the high priestess, they may subdue their nature and become one with the faith. Untrained, they are sensitive to their emotions and in general, mentally unstable. Most are unable to bear the courage and strength required of a true worshipper of the goddess. It is likely related to their bleeding.”

Bran understood his face must have expressed his chock, because the Hierophant leaned back, frowning. His eyes narrowed.

“You may stay a week on Hindarsfjall.”

The Hierophant left.

 

*

 

On the first evening on the _Hrynghorn,_ Rennaugh descended to the hull of the ship in a pretence to inspect their packing. She placed her hand on one of the crates to keep balance in the gentle rocking of the boat. From the smell of it, at least one crate contained salted fish, otherwise, the scent of tar dominated the enclosed space. She passed a chest full of clinking flasks, and settled near a cage with a few enclosed, lowly cackling hens.

The spot allowed her privacy, and she paced back and forth, counting her fingers to find days and weeks back to a certain happening.

Looking up from her hands, Rennaugh reckoned she hadn’t bled for more than two months.

Her bleeding had never been regular, in some years absent. After she arrived at Corvo Bianco, pampered with food and care, it came back in near regularity. With it came all its associated problems; headaches, cramps, slight nausea, a certain foul temper signalling its reoccurrence.

This fatigue, this nausea, the strained sensation in her breasts; it was all too familiar. Her mother carried and gave birth to five children after her, and she recognized every sign of those pregnancies in her own body.

She laid a hand on her chest as if it could cover the sound of her hammering heart.

But it couldn’t be. Regis had told her she was likely infertile. She believed him and ignored the potion he’d taught her prevented child-bearing. To her, love-making had become so separate from pregnancy, she never gave it a moment’s thought. The notion of it happening seemed unlikely to her regardless of the signs.

An image of the bruxa appeared in her mind. Rennaugh remembered her leaping away in the cave as if burned; _It cannot be!_

After the episode in the cave, a part of Rennaugh’s mind sundered into a disarray, like a broken jig-saw puzzle. She thought it had to do with the shock. Her mind reconnected and clicked into place. The puzzle was complete, all pieces perfectly fitting together to form the picture of –

\- a child. 

It was already happening, Rennaugh thought, it’s why the bruxa didn’t kill me.

She let herself believe. A shower of bliss hit her straight in the guts; a shockwave of relief and tenderness. She sat down on the planks of the floor, her hands against her lips, palms pressed together as in prayer.

 _Please let it be true_.

Unplanned pregnancies were seldom good news. Young and unmarried, people would scold her. She didn’t care.

She loved children, longed for a family of her own. A family that wouldn’t be so broken as hers, where she could get a new chance becoming a normal, happy person… She would have a baby. Her own child –

With him.

Gods, what was he going to say?

How could she anticipate a normal, happy life? Her - with her powers, her inability to belong anywhere? and him - a vampire?

Another realization; this child, a vampire?

Her heart clenched as if gripped by a cold hand.

Regis. He would have advice, he must have.

 

Rennaugh stepped the stairs to the lower deck where she would find Regis. He sat ensconced on a bench, reading. He didn’t seem much affected by the creaking movements of the boat, as if he’d spent his whole life on deck. The light from an oil lamp lit up the pages of the book in his hand.

The other passengers seemed busy with theirs; some made preparations for the night, chatting, others had their meals, feeding their children. A woman prayed to the goddess with hands clasped in her lap.

Regis noticed her presence. A kind expression spread on his face.

“Regis, I need to ask you something.” She sat down beside him.

He closed his book and gave her a nod. She tucked a strand of her hair behind an ear in a nervous gesture.

“How are vampires made?”

Surprised, he motioned her to sit closer to prevent their conversation from being overheard.

“It is related to the conjunction of the spheres, as you may well know. As for those of us who are younger than the breach, we have been born, although, no vampire ever feels part of this world... Why do you – “

The realization struck him like he’d been hit by the aard sign. His eyes travelled down to her centre, up to her face again, jaw slack and eyebrows raised.

“Are you sure?” he asked in a faint voice.

“I think so,” she whispered.

He slowly shook his head, frowning.

“Impossible – I’ve never heard of…”

Rennaugh had never seen Regis speechless before.

“My dear Rennaugh,” he sighed, “The signs _are_ quite clear. I’ve been a fool not to correctly interpret them. But this should be impossible,” he repeated, “our cellular structures are too dissimilar…”

“Regis, you told me sorceresses were infertile.”

He scoffed.

“I did no such thing; for it simply isn’t true. _Most_ are infertile, as it is related to the use of magic. You may not have used it enough to affect your fertility. It is still unheard of for a human to procreate with a vampire, though, as far as I know. It is remarkable. Perhaps it is related to your powers..?”

She peered into his face, waiting for him to go on. He shook his head, a melancholy expression on his face.

“This was never something I could have anticipated that night I introduced you to each other in the crypt.”

Her face warmed at the memory. That night, Dettlaff gave her a dour impression, but he hadn’t scared her. She knew of his broken heart and felt for his pain.

She hadn’t known of his crimes against Beauclair. By the time she found out, she had already seen too much of his generosity and kindness to find him a monster.

“How soon did you realize he cared for me?” Her voice still a whisper.

“Oh, it was quite obvious that time he razed those nekkers to shreds by the stream.” He chuckled. “I’m not sure if you know, but when we realized they attacked you, he reacted to fast I was cast aside. I would have come to your aid had he not practically pushed me into the water to get to you.”

He smiled with pursed lips.

“And swooping you up in his arms like he did? He was probably smitten already, albeit trying his best to feign indifference. However, it was after the first ordeal with the bruxa that I became certain of his affection.”

She couldn’t hold back a tender smile. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

“Regis, this child – will it be a vampire?”

He shook his head again.

“I... cannot say. It is possible. The opposite is equally possible, I guess.”

She lowered her head and clutched his hand.

“What should I do?”

His face conveyed pity. He gently squeezed her hand in return.

“That is entirely up to you.”

She contemplated telling Regis of the emotions that stirred in her; the overwhelming tenderness, the bright spark of affection, the resolve. She struggled to find the right words for the strong will to see it through, no matter the cost.

A mixed expression of seriousness and mildness spread in Regis’ face.

“I take it you haven’t told him yet.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The druidic code is inspired by the [Jedi code](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Jedi_Code). 
> 
> [Walpurgis](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walpurgis_Night) is a traditional feast to celebrate spring, called Valborg in Sweden. 
> 
> Haerviu’s speech about women being inferior is inspired by the discourse of Sabrina Glevissig and Margarita Laux-Antille in Baptism of Fire, regarding the decision to exclude men from the lodge of sorceresses.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Rennaugh, do you know why vampires don’t multiply like you humans? Why we rarely have children?”

Rennaugh found Dettlaff standing on the quarterdeck of the ship, arms on the gunnel, facing the horizon. The bulk of the ship’s crew were retired to the lower deck, two stood abreast one another by the mast, inspecting the ropes. The sea rose and fell gently underneath them. She gazed on the waters and remembered the first time she embarked a ship about a year ago, to take her to the northern kingdoms.

She would never forget the feeling that overcame her as she lost sight of land. Standing in front of her lover, the same near vertigo gripped her.

Before she got to know Regis, Dettlaff and Geralt, men were predominantly a nuisance in her life. Violent, groping, insult-hurling; she couldn’t count all the times she’d have to fight off unwanted hands and mouths that stank of ale.

She had been in love once before in her life, with a boy who spat at her when he found out about her powers.

She never needed to hide from Dettlaff. She didn’t fear herself with him. He made her feel like she could be anything, like she was everything.

And yet, standing in front of him now, nervousness travelled through her body like ripples of faint electrical jolts. She didn’t how he would respond to what she was about to say.

He noticed her presence. She took a few steps closer.

“Dettlaff - I’m,” she swallowed and tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, _just say it!_

Her hand sank in shock. Puzzled, he turned to see what caused her exasperation.

A growing black cloud loomed in the horizon. From its billowing darkness, thorny ropes of pure light struck into the waters. The electrical currents reached them from afar and caused the hair on their arms to stand up. In front of the storm cloud, a huge wave moved towards them. It would strike the ship soon.

The sails of the ship flapped with the increase of the wind. Passengers not yet retired to the lower deck cried out in chock and panic. The sound of a child crying broke through the wind.

“All passengers to the lower deck!” a foreman of the crew commanded people around him.

“By the holy Freya’s tits,” another crew member said, gaping. His eyes moved up to the enormous wave rolling closer, “we’re all going to die.”

His remark snapped Rennaugh out of her shock.

“Dettlaff, cover me! Please!”

She ran up to the prow and turned her palms up. She closed her eyes. The air above her hands rippled and pulsated.

Dettlaff heaved down a tower of crates and packages, enough to hide her from the view of the panicked crowd on the deck. A lantern smashed against the crates, setting fire to a piece of cloth from one of the toppled-over cargo. It caught the attention of the sailors, who feared fire more than stormy weather.

Trembling, Rennaugh reached out to the waters, searching for its energies. She extended another part of her mind to the storm to seek its upset core and demand it to calm itself. She probed its contents, beads of sweat gathering on her temples, only to find them inaccessible.

Icy rain drops reached the ship from the giant, dark cloud. Its pattering sound mixed with the deep roar of the tempest. Its volume threatened to shatter her ears.

She fought down the bitter taste of panic in her throat, gritting her teeth from the effort of trying to control the weather.

_Calm yourself! Leave us!_

The wave responded first. It halted, retracted and flattened out. Rennaugh would have smiled from satisfaction had she not been so afraid. But the storm roared on, it screamed from the top of its lungs.

Rennaugh screamed back, an incoherent yell. _You are not going to win today, devil! I will not die on this boat!_ She commanded the tempest to leave them, to go back to where it came from. Her hands shook. The exertion caused something to crack in her head. Blood trickled from her nostrils. 

The storm pushed forward, lightning ever striking from its belly. From its insides, ekhidnaes flew down to strike at them. The birdlike monsters perched on the bowspit and the crow’s nest of the masts before swooping down at the panicked people on the deck.

Rennaugh dropped to her knees. Stretched to the limit of her capacities, she felt the push of another force come to her aid. The surge pushed, strong like the wave she commanded to lay down, and she immediately stood up to push in response.

The giant cloud roared again, but in pain this time. It halted and vibrated, torn from the inside. With a bang that left Rennaugh’s ears ringing, the cloud imploded. She watched its remaining patches of mist dissipate.

Rennaugh let out a mix of a laugh and a sharp exhale. The icy rain subdued.

The wind slowed down, from a howling roar to a whistling breeze, but the upset waves still sprayed salt on the ship’s deck.

An ekhidnae whooshed down on Rennaugh to claw at her eyes, but she jerked her head down in time. Its curious odour of fish, sweat and boiled egg caused her insides to curl up in nausea again. Looking up though her dishevelled hair, she clasped her fist to catch the creature by the throat with her powers and fling it into the sea. Its menacing screech turned into a surprised, drowned caw.

Scrambling up on her legs, Rennaugh pushed her way through the crates, trying to hold her balance on the creaking deck that rose and sank with the remains of the upset waters. Dettlaff fought off an ekhidnae, holding its arms to prevent it from clawing his face. She could see he nearly broke out into his monstrous form. He fought it as much as he fought the ekhidnae.

Fear ran through her heart like a shard of ice. He couldn’t expose himself, the other passengers would try to kill them.

She stretched out her hand and tugged at the energies of the creature itself, squeezing at its heart until it exploded within its chest. With a piercing yell, it fell to the ship’s deck, blood spurting from its fanged mouth.

Dettlaff took a step towards her when another ekhidnae attacked. This time, he wrestled it down and stabbed it in the throat with the dagger he kept fastened to his back. The creature let out a gurgled croak.

People shouted and cried at the attacking ekhidnaes, some took out swords to fight them. A man got lifted by his shoulders and thrown overboard, his panicked scream interrupted as the sea engulfed him.

She couldn’t see Regis anywhere.

A dwarf in a beard and a studded leather jacket shouted beside her. He swore at the attacking monsters, wielding a short sword. The blood trickled from his face cut by claws.

“Devils! I’ll kill every last one of you!” his yells mixed with the screech of the monster clawing and biting at him.

Rennaugh extended her hand to clasp at the ribcage of the ekhidnae with her powers, crushing it. If fell lifeless on the deck in front of the man, who stared at it in confusion at first, then lifted his sword in a triumphant laughter. The blood of monsters and humans mixed on the wet wooden floor of the deck with fallen black feathers.

The ekhidnaes eventually decided they were outmanoeuvred. The remaining monsters flew off towards the horizon, their screeches echoing through the air.

She ran up to Dettlaff to be embraced. He wiped the rain and blood from her lips before kissing her. He lifted his face from hers and pressed her against his chest.

The winds calmed, the black sea once again rolling smooth like silk. Through the vanishing clouds, the warm light of the afternoon sun warmed the ship’s hull and illuminated its sails, still mostly intact. The captain assembled his crew to take control of the ship and shouted commands to people who weren’t injured to help.

“You did it,” Dettlaff murmured against her ear, “You stopped the storm.”

“No,” she whispered not to expose their words to the other passengers, “I stopped the wave. Something else, someone else, helped me defeat the storm. I could never have done it alone.”

He shook his head.

“This was no ordinary tempest.”

 

*

 

Regis kneeled by an injured woman near the shroud of the ship. She wore her nutbrown hair in a messy braid fastened to her head. Her linen dress of a deep green moss colour laid plastered against her body, stained by blood from a gash in her shoulder muscle. A stream of blood ran from her wound. It needed to be sewn.

“I’m a barber-surgeon, please let me help you.” His was barely audible under the shouting of the woman. She trashed about like a fish pulled up from water.

“No, let me go! I need to find my daughter! Anneke, she is here somewhere, she must be! Please, let me go!” Her tears leaked down her panicked and flushed face. _Forgive me for this._ Regis closed his eyes, searching for the cord in the woman’s head that would render her unconscious, and pulled it.

The woman fell on her back.

Regis nodded at his ability to soothe the minds of humans, and protracted vials of antiseptic liquids, a needle and bandages from his satchel. He pressed his hands against the gash to stop the bleeding. He cleaned the skin on her arm before stitching.

He barely noticed Dettlaff’s dark silhouette looming over him.

“I will see if I can find the girl.”

Regis nodded before turning back to the woman.

He finished the work with the needle. The woman would be able to use her arm again after a few weeks of rest. Rennaugh squatted next to a man with bleeding claw marks in his face and hands. She bled from her nose, Regis worryingly noticed, but she seemed otherwise unharmed. Pride swelled in his chest. He noticed she cleansed cuts and handled her vials of antiseptics and anodynes correctly. This would be her first serious test of his teachings.

The woman woke up again, moaning. Her eyes widened. She sat up and cried out.

“Anneke!”

Dettlaff walked towards them with a girl of about four years old on his arm. Her face was streaked with tears and her tiny arms laid around his neck. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

The child snivelled and hiccupped from having cried for long. She reached her arms out to her mother. 

“Oh thank the goddess! Thank you!” the mother exclaimed, lifting her glossy eyes to Dettlaff before kissing her daughter’s hair, rocking her. “Are you alright?”

The girl cast a glance at Dettlaff. “Yes mother. The big birds scared me. The man in the black coat said he knew where to find you.”

The mother gratefully beamed at Dettlaff.

People moaned and cried around them. Regis lifted his eyes to Rennaugh, who stood with her mouth open, a tender expression on her face. She had seen Dettlaff’s return with the child. Regis could only imagine what emotions stirred in her, knowing her situation. Upon hearing the scream of another injured man, she tore from the scene.

“I’ll take them to the lower deck,” Dettlaff said.

 

It took an hour for the captain to gain control over the situation. He acknowledged the benefit of having a barber-surgeon onboard and made sure Regis and Rennaugh had everything they needed to do their work. He personally helped handing out blankets and bandages to injured passengers. Their journey would be delayed, he explained, by a few hours.

They gathered the dead and swept them in the coarse cloth of the broken sails. All and all, three men had died, including the man thrown overboard. More were injured; cuts and bruises, two with broken ribs, none with lost limbs.

It was a miracle, Rennaugh heard people say around her. Freya Modron watched over them, she did not abandon her children. The crew members muttered different words. They knew storms, and no storm they had ever encountered behaved in such a way. It was the work of some unknown evil.

The captain scratched his dark beard and spat into the sea. “We got caught in some brawl between powerful forces,” he muttered.

At the first moment of rest, Regis took Rennaugh by the arm to motion her towards a part of the ship where they could speak more privately.

“The captain is not wrong,“ he said, “but he does not know the extent of the powers he speaks of. Rennaugh, have you ever heard of a being called a Djinn?”

She shook her head, shivering in the cool evening air.

“Djinns are spirits who belong to the elemental plane of air. Remember I informed you of the planes of existence before? Sometimes, powerful magicians have managed to bind these spirits to them and force them to our plane, to fulfil their wishes. However, the character of these spirits, once caught, is spiteful and deceitful. They are extremely difficult to control.”

He had a stern look on his face.

“I believe someone wished for this ship to be attacked by the storm and the ekhidnaes. This storm was conjured by a Djinn. Rennaugh, how did you stop it? I assume you did something that caused it to dissipate?”

“I couldn’t stop the storm. The wave, yes. Something came to my aid, a push of… something, I can’t explain it. The force? It helped me, Regis.”

“It is a good thing Yennefer is still on the islands,” he said, “we will have to consult her. If I am correct, someone is after your life. And I guarantee it is related to your proposed investigation of this ancient sisterhood of sorceresses.”

She swallowed. Someone wanted her dead? 

She had sensed the storms intent and raged against the prospect of dying when it roared closer. Not now! Now that she knew… She became aware of the pulsating headache from her effort during the storm and squinted.

Regis spoke again, his voice soft.

“I take it you never got the chance to tell him, by the way I fail to see him hovering no less than an inch from you to make sure you are alright?”

Seeing her visage turn pale, he patted her on her shoulder.

“Go, and rest. If you do not wish to tell him tonight, send him to me. No, I will not reveal your secret, but I wish to discuss the happenings of today with him.”

She managed to smile through her peaky state before leaving for the lower deck.

 

She descended the stairs, hearing moans of injured men downstairs. Mixtures and tinctures dulled their pain and helped them sleep, but the most important task was to make sure their wounds did not get infected.

She found Dettlaff and the lone mother near the bulkhead of the ship. The little girl slept beside them on a bundle of blankets, her little hands clutching a piece of paper. As Rennaugh came closer, she noticed it was full of drawings of ladybugs and butterflies, in Dettlaff’s characteristic style.

The insects sprawled from a simple graphite pencil, with such care and detail they appeared alive.

He stood up as she approached and lifted his arm to gently place a hand on her cheek. Reading the concern in his eyes, she drew the conclusion she looked pale and worn. She lifted her own hand to his.

“I’m fine. Regis wishes to speak to you. He’s still on the main deck.”

Dettlaff placed a light kiss on her temple, nodded to the woman on the floor, and left.

Rennaugh spent an hour speaking to the woman. Her name was Frieda, a widow from Oxenfurt. She and her daughter travelled to Skellige to meet her betrothed, her late husband’s brother. Such marriage arrangements weren’t uncommon in the parts of Cintra Rennaugh came from. Sense of responsibility was strong within families.

Frieda asked if she and Dettlaff were married.

A nervous flash ran through Rennaugh at the question. Perhaps she should pretend she was in a formal union with Dettlaff - when the pregnancy would start to show, her unmarried status would mean trouble for them; inability to rent rooms, find employment, for their child to socialize with other children. Children born out of wedlock were often treated as pariahs, not to mention lone mothers.

But what would he say?

“Perhaps you are not married yet?” the other woman said. “You wear your hair like a free woman. And you don’t wear a ring, but not everyone can afford one…”

“I’m sorry to hear of your husband’s death.”

Frieda grabbed Rennaugh’s hand with a sad smile.

“I was devastated when he died. He was killed by a band of thieves on a trip to Tretogor. I thought the goddess had turned her eyes from me. But now I know she watches over me. She sent his brother to take care of us, and she sent your companion to save me.”

They spoke of the islands. Rennaugh inspected her cut. She could smell no infection from the blood.

Dettlaff came back to the lower deck with Regis in tow. He asked of Frieda’s health, and she thanked him warmly.

“I will stay up to keep an eye on the wounded,” Regis said. “Take this opportunity to rest. You need it.”

She bade Frieda good night and walked to the space of the lower deck designated for them. Dettlaff accompanied her. Exhausted, she fell asleep on the furs they brought, barely remembering to visualize being enclosed by an egg before dozing off.

 

*

 

Dettlaff sat next to her, his arm resting on one knee, the other leg outstretched before him. It was early morning. The interior of the ship creaked with the rolling waves. He listened to the regular breaths of people sleeping, together with a snoring from the other side of the room. An injured man further into the hull moaned.

His whole being protested to this journey by sea. Someone wanted the _Hrynghorn_ sunken full fathoms five, and he had been powerless to stop it.

He thought of the streaks of blood trickling from her nose – he knew it came from exertion. She stopped the storm, but whoever controlled it was still alive.

He clenched his jaw. What if she had –

He would kill whomever was behind it.

He gazed at Rennaugh, still sleeping on the floor beside him. He was grateful there were no nightmares. She could finally rest.

It was a mistake to take this trip to Skellige. After she’d spoken to the sorceress, he’d take her away from there. Take her to…

To where? Where would they go? What kind of life could he offer her?

The familiar sense of inadequacy hit him in the guts. He closed his eyes and leaned the back of his head against the wall.

Did he have the right to take her away from the place that could give her answers, a sense of belonging? The panic from the possibility of losing her pushed and pulled in his chest.

She needed this, needed answers. He couldn’t take it from her. He would stay with her, protect her from whatever evils that wanted to hurt her.

He smiled crookedly. He doubted she’d let him take her from the islands by force. She had a strong mind. He loved her for it.

He loved her for asking him to come with her. He was hers, her mate, just like she was his. She hadn’t left him behind, like -

She stirred and moaned, a hand pressed to her stomach. Quickly, he handed her a wooden tankard and watched in worry as she held her hair back with one hand and vomited.

She wiped the cold sweat from her brow and fell back down on her back. Dettlaff took the tankard from her and walked up the stairs to empty it into the ocean. The familiar cries of gulls pierced through the watery sounds of the waves. The presence of the white birds signalled their journey’s end, but he couldn’t see land yet.

He filled a jug with water and took it to her. He needed to ask her what was wrong - her nausea was more than sea sickness. A cold arrow shot through him.

Was something seriously wrong? If so, what could he do?

He hated how consorting with humans made him so powerless.

He tried to push the fear back.

He squatted to hand her the water. She gratefully accepted it and chewed on more pennyroyal leaves.

“Rennaugh, I know you’re still experiencing the happenings in the fortress and in the cave. I know it causes you pain. But you need to tell me: are you ill?”

“I’m not ill,” she said, and before he could utter another word she continued in a faint voice, “I’m with child.”

Dettlaff went numb. He refused to take in her words at first. Then, their meaning crept into his mind.

His gaze turned dark, eyes narrowing.

“Who?”

He hardly recognized his own voice. He didn’t notice how his fist on his knee trembled.

He fought an impulse to grab her by the neck, to push her against the walls of the boat and force the truth out of her.

Not again! Fooled, a ruse…

No. He stilled his hand, shaking with fury. He had promised to never hurt her. Every fibre in his body screamed for him to leave, to run from this woman whose betrayal would finally send him to that dark pit of despair and pain -

She frowned, confused, until her face twisted in a mix of anger and desperation.

“With who? Tell me so I can –“

“You,” she exhaled, “with you!”

He got up to his feet, scowling. His whole body radiated with disbelief – and something else; fear, and wonder.

Could it be true? Since they confessed their love, they had spent very little time apart. Her eyes gleamed up at him, angry, and full of sadness. She trembled.

“No. That’s impossible.” He nearly flinched at the stony timbre in his own voice.

She looked like a drop of water hanging from the tip of a branch, holding on from falling. He knew he’d hurt her, he resented himself for it, but he couldn’t untangle his fear, worry, and confusion.

She stood up and squared her shoulders, refusing to let her eyes leave his.

“If this is something you do not wish, then at least tell me why. I deserve that much.” She angrily wiped a tear from her face, speaking low to not catch the attention of the others on the deck.

All the anger poured from him.

She was so strong. His proud Rennaugh. Astonished, he realized she spoke in earnest.

But how..?

To his surprise, a bright spark of joy erupted underneath the cloud of worry in his mind. She was with his child.

Swiftly, he stepped forward and took her in his arms. She craned her neck to not suffocate against his shoulder, her arms embraced him.

“I’m sorry. I…” his said in his deep voice. He drew slightly away and looked in her eyes. “I spoke out of fear. I’m not sure I have the words to explain it.”

She held his arms in her hands.

“Try.”

He looked down at her body, up to catch her gaze again, and placed a hand on her hair.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded and pressed her lips together.

“So this is why you have been…” his words muffled against her hair. Her heart thumped hard against his chest.

She let a few seconds pass.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

He broke free from their embrace,  

“Rennaugh, do you know why vampires don’t multiply like you humans? Why we rarely have children?”

She shook her head.

“To be a vampire,” he continued, “is to always live with the feeling of not belonging, unable to go back to a world lost and unknown. It is to be a prisoner, with no key to the cage that is this world, this life. It is to watch humans come and go in the blink of an eye – to live with this curse to go on, and on… It is not a life I wish for anyone, least not a child.”

 

Rennaugh’s mouth dropped.

She could hardly grasp the existential dread Dettlaff described to her. To live with such a sensation of alienation – it was unimaginable.

No wonder vampires regarded humans as incomprehensible and inferior, Rennaugh thought as she stood with his arms around her, her secret revealed. Such fickle lives, like the flame of a candle. Yet, two vampires cared for her and called her their companion. One, even lover.

Triss had asked her once about dying and loving someone who could not die.

She knew of nothing to say. Chills wandered down her arms. Was it cruel to want this child?

A memory took hold of her.

During the war, the village in the outskirts of Cintra city where her family lived burned from the onslaught of the black ones. She and her mother hid in the woods when the soldiers marched past. When they dared to return, they learned some of the villages had been killed. Her father was one of them.

The community proved itself to be strong. Everyone tried to help each other get back on their feet after the war. Folk traded whatever work her mother could do for necessities. Although they were poor, they seldom starved. But Rennaugh didn’t remember much of the challenging times. She remembers spending time with her mother.

Near their home flowed a little stream that broadened and eventually flowed to the Yaruga. They followed it many times together to catch fish, her mother pointing towards the cranes that stood in the shallow waters waiting for prey. In spring, they picked bouquets of lilies of the valley and placed inside to let the fragrance fill the single room of their cottage. In the autumns, they found blueberries in the forest and mother made porridge. Rennaugh’s little face was purple for days after.

At night, her mother sang the lullaby of the wolf.

 

Grey wolf, in forest deep

Hungry, searching, howling

My child, rest and fall asleep

I will keep you safe

From his prowling

 

Rennaugh wanted to pick flowers with her child, to sing lullabies and feed him or her blueberry porridge. She wanted it all. She would do it alone if she had to.

At that thought, her heart bled.

“I want this child," she whispered. "I want to take care of it and watch it grow up. I want to know her, or him. And if you will, I wish to have it with you.”

She mustered the courage to say what came next.

“I lost my family, Dettlaff. But ever since the night by the bonfire, I’ve felt like I’ve won another. No, before that. You are my family now, you and Regis. I love you both so much.”

She steeled herself from his reaction. If he rejected her now, it would shatter her heart. She would be alone. But she _was_ going take care of this child, if the gods allowed it to live. 

His entire body went rigid. Her heart hammered in her chest before relaxing into his arms.

“You are mine,” he growled, “you belong with me.” His mouth rested against her forehead.

The knot in her chest unfolded and gave way to relief. She let go of the thoughts of time, for although eternity was not for her, there was now; it was all she had.

 

Regis made sure he gave his companions time before approaching from the stairs. He couldn’t anticipate his blood brother’s reaction to the news. He had feared another affective outburst, but to his relief, he’d been wrong.

Regis couldn’t entangle his emotions towards her revelation. Few things surprised him anymore. This was literally jaw dropping.

Nothing about Rennaugh being with child bode well, he thought with a heavy heart.

He was determined not to let them know of his pessimism. If the news gave them joy, he did not wish to impair it.

“I am sorry to interrupt you in such a tender moment, my friends,” he said, but we are approaching land. We will soon see the coastline of the southern islands before reaching Ard Skellig. There will be a ceremony for the dead. I thought you might wish to join.”

They let go of each other.

“Regis,” Dettlaff said, “there is something – “

“He knows.”

Dettlaff placed narrowing eyes on her.

“You told him before you told me?”

Rennaugh opened her mouth to speak, but Regis interrupted.

“She came to me for confirmation of her suspicion, in my role as well-versed in the ailments of the human body; albeit this particular matter cannot be regarded as ailment, but rather its effects.”

The other vampire still looked like a storm cloud.

“I told Rennaugh she was probably infertile, before you met. Do not blame her for being confused, or for coming to me with questions before turning to you.”

The muscles underneath the black leather coat of the other vampire seemed to relax.

“Regis, how is this possible?”

Regis took a hold of the string of his leather satchel, motioning with his other hand, palm up as to underline his unfamiliarity of the matter.

“I cannot say. It is most remarkable. My suspicion is that it is related to your powers, Rennaugh, as I said, although magical abilities normally results in the inability to bare children.”

They heard a clang of a copper bell on the upper deck. “Ahead, the Southern isles!” one of the crew men shouted. At the sound, Rennaugh broke free from her lover and ran upstairs. They followed with less haste.

She walked up to the bow of the ship and grasped the gunnel. The wind caught the strands of hair that escaped her braid near the ears and temples. She clasped the pendant on her chest.

He could only imagine what she felt as they neared the isles of her ancestors.

Dettlaff stood with his arms folded and gaze fixed on her. He directed his eyes to the ring on his finger.

“Regis, I need to ask your permission for something.”

“I think I know what your question is, Dettlaff. And I permit it, of course.” He looked down at the two intertwined serpents on his companion’s ring, one silvery, the other obsidian. “It was a gift, mind you, and therefore you have the right to do with it as you please. But I also feel sympathetic to your request.”

The other vampire cast him a grateful glance.

“The one who gave me the ring wanted to remind me of certain values, of chaos and order, and of balance.” Regis made a pause. “Do you know why I agreed to come along on this trip, Dettlaff?”

His companion fixated his gaze in response, frowning.

“The fact that we are bound by blood, and that I care for Rennaugh and wish to support her in her endeavour is part of it. But I have my own reasons. It regards the peculiar fact of the absence of vampires on the isles. Yes, it’s true,” he remarked to the surprised expression in his friend’s face, “why, do you think? I intend to do an investigation of my own.”

“There is no elder on the islands?”

“No, not as far as I know. The ravens have told me nothing.”

Dettlaff refolded his arms on his chest.

“Why do I have the feeling you are going to get yourself in trouble, Regis?”

Smiling, Regis directed his eyes to the jagged coast line of the southern isles appearing in the light morning mist. They would reach Ard Skellig within a few hours.

Sailing ever nearer the islands, a chill wandered down Dettlaff’s spine.

He had a strange sensation of familiarity.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’ve reached Skellige!
> 
> I will take a slightly longer break from uploading the next chapter as I have a huge deadline upcoming at work. I expect chapter 6, which also begins the second part of three in this fic, to be up in about three to four weeks. This chapter was extra long as compensation. 
> 
> The lullaby Rennaugh’s mother sang is inspired by [Vargasång](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QMHq-nRF4p8) from the film adaptation of Astrid Lindgren’s [Ronja Rövardotter](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ronia,_the_Robber%27s_Daughter_\(film\)). 
> 
> About the ring Regis gave to Dettlaff: I’ve shamelessly adopted [Kaeltale’s](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeltale/pseuds/kaeltale) headcanon regarding [ how he got it](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12614564). Go, go read! Everyone deserves to take part of this gorgeous fic (it’s got a dragon!). 
> 
> I want to thank everyone who has commented, read and given kudos, again. Always! The comments on the last chapter made me realize I had to write the pregnancy reveal from Dettlaff’s POV (I first wrote it exclusively from Rennaugh’s POV). You make this fic better! ♡✧( ु•⌄• )


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Rennaugh, I wish to speak to you, of us.”

The light of the morning sun shone through the chasm that separated Kaer Trolde fortress from the town, illuminating the sails of the ships stationed by the harbour. The stronghold itself, accessible only through the walled bridge that hung over the gulf, loomed on the other side of the mountain. Patches of snow glistened on the steep mountain ridges over the keep.

Rennaugh knew of the saga of Grymmdjarr, founder of Clan an Craite, who dragged the stone from the sea to carve Kaer Trolde keep with his bare hands.

The saga did not tell how, throughout history, the Jarls of Skellige guarded the waters of the archipelago to collect tax from every ship embarking on the islands to continue towards the continent. The strategic position of the isles ensured a fair revenue, enabling the construction of the fortress on top of the snow-specked cliffs of Trolde as well the shipyard that produced the legendary armada of the Skellige fleet.

The air on Ard Skellig was different from that of Cintra, she thought. Cooler, but also dry, crisp. It ran through the lungs like water and came out in puffs of smoke. The first snow would soon fall.

They descended the wharf towards the settlements, passing barrels of dried herring and trays of fishnets. Sea gulls squalled and snapped at discarded fish floating on the surface of the harbour waters.

Women in embroidered smocks passed them, carrying baskets of cloth and imported fruit, speaking in the Skellige dialect that reminded Rennaugh so much of her mother. People dressed mostly in dark colors, a few stood out wearing orange or teal and embroidered details to their clothes. Children ran around in rain-proof jerkins, most men wore whale or sheep skin jackets and accompanying leather caps.

Back at Corvo Bianco, she had ordered a warm coat, black with a rabbit fur collar, with some of the money she made from helping sick and injured people in the villages. The temperature of Skellige hardly bothered the vampires, but they agreed their leather jackets, suitable for the climate of Touissant, would raise eyebrows and warrant unwished attention.

“Triss said Yennefer would be found at the inn further up this slope. We could –“

“Master barber-surgeon!”

Frieda strode towards them in a fast pace, holding her daughter’s hand, the other arm in a sling over her chest. A man in a brown fur coat, teal breeches with an embroidered pattern and a cap with a fur lining accompanied her. Frieda introduced him as her late husband’s brother and her betrothed, Sigvard.

“These are the fine folks that helped so many people on the ship after the storm!” She smiled at Dettlaff, “and this is the man who found my Anneke.”

Hearing her name, the child hid in her mother’s skirts, peering up at Dettlaff with a shy smile. Rennaugh caught a lump in her throat from the soft gaze he gave the girl.

Sigvard shook their hands, blurting out grateful remarks.

“You have done my family a great favour – I wish to repay you! Let me first invite you to lunch at the tavern right up by the marketplace – they have a chowder fit for the gods! How long did you say you were staying?”

“About a week,” Regis replied, “before heading to Hindarsfjall. We would gratefully accept your proposition to join you for lunch. What say you, my friends?”

Rennaugh and Dettlaff agreed.

Walking up the slope to town, Rennaugh compared Trolde to her home city. It lacked Cintra’s splendour but had a rustic charm. Most abodes were constructed from pine tree logs, with thatched or grassed roofs, but some facades consisted of merged granite blocks, forming beautiful patterns which contrasted nicely against the wooden frames.

The town had a goldsmith, a glass blower and different shops, selling wickerwork, candied fruit and different assortments of sweets, bread and cheese. Further in, they found a jeweller, an herbalist, an armorer and a cloth- and spice merchant.

The tavern laid in an edifice larger than most residential abodes in the area, with windowpanes made from the undersides of differently colored glass jars melted together. A carved head of a dragon loomed on the roof and a sign swung above the entrance with the accompanying name “The Dragon’s Head.”

The entered a room lit by a fireplace as well as torches attached to the walls, its interior smelling of resin, ale and wet fur. The walls adorned the clan’s coat of arms, and to the left of the entrance hung a large painting of a bearded man raising his sword from an impressive trireme, surrounded by sirens.

It must be the consort of Queen Calanthe, she thought.

The barmaid regretted they only had a table for four available but perhaps they wouldn’t mind sitting a bit cramped together?

“If there’s room in the heart, there’s room for the arse!” Sigvard laughed and motioned them to sit.

He ordered food and ale, conversing politely. Regis prided himself in being refined and philosophical, with his excellent vocabulary and his mastery of irony. He could come across as conceited but possessed the skill to adapt his tone to the person he spoke to and made Sigvard burst out in occasional guffaws. Sigvard was especially interested in Regis’ experience as barber-surgeon during the guerrilla wars against Nilfgaard five years after the slaughter of Cintra, but Frieda bade him mind the child with such stories.

Dettlaff never did speak much in the company of people, but when he did, he always surprised Rennaugh with his conversational skills. He was socially adept and often asked polite questions that made others feel at ease - a way to make others speak rather than him. They conversed with Frieda of what she knew about Hindarsfjall.

“I’ve only been there once,” she said, “but I remember the lupins and the cloudberries…”

They finished their meal; a hearty fish chowder Rennaugh couldn’t entirely stomach, and sat enjoying their beer. Frieda’s little girl came up to Dettlaff, whispering if he would draw her more pictures of ladybugs, please?

“Anneke, don’t bother the grown-ups, eat your kale!” Her mother reprimanded her.

“It is alright,” Dettlaff ensured, “I don’t mind.”

He took out a pencil and drew on a napkin, leaving the others to converse. The girl stood on her tiptoes to see better.

“So, you are planning to stay in Hindarsfjall for a month at least?” Sigvard asked after finishing his third ale. “My cousin Gunnar owns a hunting cabin southeast of Larvik, I’ll write to tell him to sublet it to you to a modest price! It’s a fine house, more of a croft than a cabin, although I’m not sure of its state these days... He hasn’t used it since the whole ordeal seven, eight years ago, when the riders on skeletal horses sacked the island…”

Rennaugh shuddered.

“That would be most kind,” Regis said.

Sigvard ordered his fourth tankard of ale, a bit glossy-eyed. “Hindarsfjall hasn’t been the same after that. Freya’s garden dead, the lands barren, the priestesses slaughtered by a werewolf, the wolves acting crazy... and now those vile monsters attacking boats in packs?”

He slammed the wooden tankard onto the table. Everyone jumped on their seat.

“A thousand curses upon all monsters!” he bellowed. The rest of the guest in the establishment turned to them.

Regis and Dettlaff stiffened. The bottom lip of the little girl quivered.

“That’s enough, Sigvard,” Frieda said in a controlled voice, “they only act according to their nature…“

“No Frieda, they’re a plague on this land! You have just arrived, so you wouldn’t know, but even the druids are starting to admit it. The new hierophant changed their code.”

“Ermion is dead?” Regis asked, surprised.

“Aye, you knew him? Around a year ago. His successor, Haerviu, has a different philosophy. And thank the goddess for that!”

He wiped at the spilled ale with his hand.

“But enough talk of monsters! People like you are the proof of righteousness in the world!

Anneke tugged the hem of her mother’s skirt. “Look mother, it’s me!”

Frieda exhaled a vocal oh! when she discovered the drawing on the napkin. The sketchy portrait of the little girl captured her essence, from her one eye larger than the other and the slight gap between her front teeth, to the bushy hair under her cap.

“How lovely!” She gasped.

Sigvard leaned over to see and let out an appreciative grunt.

“I did the butterfly.” The girl pointed next to her portrait. Frieda still held the napkin in her hand, dumbfounded.

Anneke and her family soon left the Dragon’s Head and took their goodbyes. Their ship to An Skellig departed that same afternoon. Rennaugh promised to write and to visit them on in time for the wedding that would be held later next year.

Regis shook his head as the family departed towards the harbour.

“I’d wager Geralt would find it ironic - now that he has hung his swords on the wall, he is seen in high regard on the islands.”

“What do you mean?”

“The hatred of monsters,” he answered, “it makes witchers warranted these days, does it not?”

 

*

 

They walked up the road to the inn. Rennaugh’s mouth ran dry. She would soon meet the woman who could give her answers regarding the sisterhood of the Dathmori, the second sorceress Rennaugh had ever met. She didn’t know whether the slight nausea that churned her insides related to nervousness or to her condition.

”I will not join you to see this sorceress,” Dettlaff said. “There is something I need to do. Meet me later, in the tavern.”

She lifted her eyebrows at his sudden retraction. He nodded at them but didn’t leave until they entered.

Warmth radiated from a large open fire. Its orange light colored the interior and its visitors in a warm hue. A smell of rosemary, chive and dill filled the room. People, mostly men, their fur coats discarded by their seats, conversed and burst out in burly laughs, heaving tankards of ale and small glass vials of a clear beverage called brännvin.

No one fitting Triss’ description of Yennefer of Vengerberg could be seen in the room.

Regis ushered her inside by placing a hand on her elbow.

“Let us ask the proprietor of this establishment of her whereabouts, shall we?”

“Good day,” Rennaugh greeted the innkeep, a short-haired man with a tunic embroidered with a yellow band, “we are looking for a woman, with raven hair and…”

“Aye, I know her,” the innkeep interrupted. “She’s asked me to direct you to her room. Upstairs, second to the left.” He hung a tankard on a rack above his head.

“Thank you.”

Regis gave her a look that said, “Well then,” and walked towards the stairs, his hand on the leather strap of his satchel.

They ascended the top of the stairs. Reaching the second door to the left, he beckoned her to knock.

“Come in.” A velvety, feminine voice called.

Regis extended his large hand to the doorknob and twisted it.

A smell of lilac and gooseberries, familiar from the letters, reached Rennaugh’s senses.

She noticed the room was untidy.

The bed unmade, black stockings laid thrown on top of crumpled bed linen together with a long, plush skirt and black mittens with fur lining. On the bed table, a chalice stained with lipstick balanced on top of several book, together with a cluster of red grapes. The accompanying carafe poised on the desk together with diverse utensils Rennaugh guessed were used for magic. Pencils, brushes, jars and bottles of porcelain, small flasks containing powders and soot, creams and oils laid on a mirrored table closer to the door.

A slim, raven-haired woman turned her violet gaze.

The door closed behind them. Rennaugh let out a small gasp. Yennefer of Vengerberg was stunningly beautiful. Her locks cascaded on her shoulders like gleaming oil, her lips shone with the color of near-ripe cherry. She wore a ruffled silk jacket in black and white colors, her slim legs covered in black plush leggings. A velvet choker with an obsidian star caressed her neck.

Where Triss’ beauty struck Rennaugh to be like the first blooming of the wild dog roses, this woman’s lithe appearance stung the eyes. 

Rennaugh’s scar burned. She wished she too could use make up like the woman before her. She wished she knew how to use make up at all.

The sorceress left the desk to walk towards them in short, confident strides. To Rennaugh’s surprise, Yennefer lifted her arms, and without even so much as casting her a glance, she threw them around Regis’ neck.

Rennaugh took a step back.

“You didn’t know her,” the sorceress mumbled against Regis’ jacket, “You died to help a girl you’d never met.” She lifted her eyes. “I owe you my life.”

If Rennaugh hadn’t already held this woman in high regard, she would have now.

If Regis could blush, she thought, he would have been beet-red. Her sight fogged from his touched expression.

“Right choices are easily made in good company,” he replied.

Yennefer mirrored his melancholic smile and squeezed his arms before turning her inquisitive eyes.

Rennaugh couldn’t take her eyes away from the star hanging from the choker around Yennefer’s neck. The glistening of the inlaid, small diamonds caught her gaze like flies to a lantern.

“So, this is your apprentice. Triss’ little protégé.” Yennefer’s eyes narrowed. Taking two steps forward, she extended a hand to grab Rennaugh by the jaw, turning her face awry to better inspect her scar.

Rennaugh stiffened the muscles of her face. She involuntarily spilled energy from her palms to push the unwanted touch away.

On second thought, she might not like Yennefer of Vengerberg so much.

Yennefer let go and sunk her gaze to Rennaugh’s hands.

“So uncontrolled. You are a hazard. Have you killed? Accidentally set a house on fire? Conjured a landslide over unaware travelers?”

Regis stepped forward and cleared his throat.

“Yennefer, this is Rennaugh Didriksdottir.”

“Yes,” the sorceress said, “and I am Yennefer of Vengerberg, and although I have many titles, they are not important in this context.”

“I’m honored to meet you.”

Yennefer’s gaze fixated her, arms crossed on her chest.

“Triss gave me your letters,” Rennaugh continued, “I’m grateful that - ”

The raven-haired woman interrupted her with a gesture.

“Yes, you’re quite welcome. All my letters? Hm.” The sorceress placed her hands on her hips.

“I wish discuss your abilities. It is, forgive me Regis for saying this but, unreasonable of Triss to give the responsibility for your magical training to someone who has no experience in the matter what so ever. What was she thinking?”

Rennaugh wanted to protest, but Regis spoke in her place.

“To be honest, the purpose of letting Rennaugh into my care was for her to rest after recovering from a poisoned wound, and be trained in alchemy and herbalism, trades that you no doubt know are my areas of expertise.”

“But you tested her abilities, did you not? Or did Triss lie to me in her letter? Where is your other companion by the way, the one called Dettlaff?” Her voice softened. “If I am not mistaken, I have him to thank for your health.”

“He needed to run an errand in town. And yes, we did test Rennaugh’s powers in Touissant.”

Rennaugh frowned. I need to stop letting others speak on my behalf, she thought. This woman asked me a question.

“I have killed.”

Narrowing violet eyes bore into hers. “Excuse me?”

“Using my powers.” Rennaugh tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I have killed, several men in a fortress in the Brokilon forest.”

“I take it that is how you got your scar? Triss merely wrote you had gone through a few ordeals.”

“No – that was on another occasion. The one who cut me found a way to interrupt my powers.”

Yennefer turned to the vampire.

“Regis, may I kindly ask you to go down an order us some food – cheeses, bread, some fruit and wine, on my room tab. I will need to hear everything about this.”

 

*

 

They spoke of the vampires dying in the Amell mountains, of travelling to Brokilon to stop the nobleman from Touissant, of Rennaugh killing his men to prevent the murder of Dettlaff, as she didn’t know Dettlaff could not be killed. They spoke of the bruxa attacking her in the cave.

Yennefer’s expression told Rennaugh she doubted some of the elements of their story.

“Why didn’t the dryads kill you? They would never allow humans to take over an entire fortress in their habitat. Or have they been driven back so far into the woods…?”

Rennaugh shook her head. She had never heard of the existence of dryads.

Regis gestured to underline his words.

“Geralt was as surprised as you. The only explanation we could come up with was that they chose not to intervene.”

“Absurd,” the sorceress scoffed.

He raised an eyebrow.

She apologized for her crudeness.

“I’m not interested in the dryads or the Brokilon. You said the bruxa tied you, and that the hide she used interrupted your powers? I’ve never heard of an animal that interrupts magic. Certain metals, yes, crops such as hops and hemp, yes. But never an animal.”

“She knew about the sisterhood,” Rennaugh said, “she called me ‘ixa’.”

“Well, what an extraordinarily intelligent creature.” Yennefer place her hands on her hips. “Any theories to why she had such extensive knowledge, Regis?”

He stood silent with his hand on the string of his satchel.

Yennefer impatiently waved her hand.

“We can speak of the vampiress on another occasion. Tell me Rennaugh, what have you learned of magic? What books have Triss told you to read? Giambattista’s _Forces of the Elements_? Stammelford’s _Dialogues on the Nature of Magic_? Richert’s and Monck’s _Natural Magic_? Please don’t tell me Agnes of Glanville’s _The secret of secrets_?

“I have _Introduction to Applied Magic_ …”

“A child’s read.”

Rennaugh blushed.

“If Triss’ descriptions of your magical abilities are correct,” the raven-haired sorceress continued, “you have drawn energy from the elements since you were little – true? Well, another proof the old moron Ermion was mistaken about virgins not being able to use magic. Men do tend to hold their organs, and what they think they mean for women, in high regard, to the verge of absolute preposterousness."  

Rennaugh’s blush deepened. Regis chuckled.

Yennefer took her arms from her hips in a soft gesture.

“I can see you are tired, Rennaugh. This has surely been a long day for you. Let’s meet again tomorrow and talk some more. Now you,” she said to Regis, “I would kindly like to stay. I have so much to ask you.”

He smiled. “With pleasure.”

 

*

 

Descending the stairs, Rennaugh found Dettlaff next to the innkeeper’s counter. He approached her.

“I’ve reserved a room for us. Come.”

Grateful for the prospect of intimacy, she followed him back up the stairs. Theirs was on the top floor - a simpler standard than Yennefer’s, but still superior to most rooms in inns she’d encountered so far. A succulent decorated the room, a cozy fire crackled next to a bed large enough for two.

She inhaled the scent of soft soap scented with fir tree oil as she removed her jacket.

Was there something in his hand? She walked closer.

“Tell me of your encounter with the sorceress,” he said.

“It was... We spoke of my powers, what they mean. I think I need some time to process everything. I left her and Regis to reminisce of past times. We will meet her again tomorrow.”

She placed her fingers to caress the bird pin on his coat. “How was your afternoon?”

“Rennaugh, I wish to speak to you, of us.”

That made her heart skip a beat. She nodded tentatively.

“When I met you,” he began, “I was so full of my disdain for humans, of myself; your presence irritated me at first. I couldn’t wrap my head around why Regis took interest in you.”

She frowned. This is what he wished to tell her?

“Until you - I learned you also knew pain yet lacked cruelty.”

He touched her hair.

“I didn’t return to the human world after I killed –“ he swallowed, “after I killed Syanna, because I was ashamed. I regretted my actions in Beauclair. But I found no way to atone. At first, I didn’t want to. When I realized Syanna had fooled me, I thought; you wanted a monster; then a monster you shall get.”

Her lips parted in an exhale. He had never spoken of the happenings in Touissant with such sincerity before.

“The bruxa who nearly killed you - she confirmed that self-image. To be anathema to man. The only one who believed I could be something else was Regis. I resented him for it at first. Then I needed to reach out to him as vampires died, and I met you.”

His grim expression didn’t match the affect in his discourse.

“You never saw me as a monster, not even when you knew what I was, what I had done. You treated me like I didn’t deserve hate but understanding. I’ve never thanked you for it.”

His gaze slanted to her centre, before catching hers again.

“Rennaugh, I am sorry for my reaction on the ship – when you told me.”

“I know you are,” she said and caressed his jawline with her fingertips, “it was – understandable.”

“I want you to know,” he continued, ”that this - you being with child - it marks the point of no return for me. It is a relief, in a way. You know I struggle to fit into human society. But now, I will try, to make our lives fit. I devote myself to you, and to him, or her.”

His expression hardened. “Will you, Rennaugh?”

“What do you mean?”

“I am speaking of your ambitions with this journey. You are searching for yourself, hoping to find a legacy. I worry you won’t find what you’re looking for. I need to know that this – us, matters beyond the history of this Dathmori you seek.”

She didn’t have to think twice.

“You, us, matters most. Always.”

“If so, I want you to have this.”

He opened his fist and revealed a silvery ring in his palm, glistening in the light from the fireplace. Shaped like a snake biting its own tail, it formed an oval with intricate details down to the small, shimmering scales on its back.

Rennaugh’s heartbeat accelerated.

He took her hand. She noticed he wore a similar ring on his finger, of a darker of a type of metal she didn’t know the name of.

“These are from your ring."

He gripped her palm to slide the serpent on her finger. It tugged around her flesh to fit as if the metal was alive.

“Rennaugh, me ama tusur-thir, lautnivu,” he whispered.

She didn’t recognize those words. It wasn’t the Nazairian he sometimes used.

“What language is that?”

“It is our language. I seldom speak it.”

“What did you say?”

Still holding her hand, his eyes conveyed a softness exclusive for her.

“It means: ‘be my spouse, my family, Rennaugh.’”

Warmth bloomed in her chest.

It wasn’t a formal wedding, but it was enough. They were family.

“I will! Of course – “

He placed his hands on her face to cover her mouth with his before she finished her words. His lips soon traced her jaw to reach her neck. She gripped the leather on his back.

“Speak to me again, in your language,” she whispered, eyes closed.

He lifted his face from her neck.

“Mi zini ara nac-um zu salvia tva.“

“What does it mean?”

He backed her towards the bed and lowered a hand to cup her breast. She let out a small gasp.

“It means, ‘I will respectfully take you to bed now’.”

She smiled as she fell onto the sheets.

 

*

 

Eyes closed, she hummed as he found the sensitive spots on her neck with his mouth. His warm lips nibbled along her clavicle before moving down to enclose a nipple. She grabbed his hair and gasped. Her breasts felt a little sore, but pleasure rippled through her nonetheless as he flicked his tongue against the peak.

He raised his torso to stand kneeling between her legs, a hand caressing her knee to continue down to where her legs met. His chest rose and sank with each ragged breath.

A whimper escaped her. She grasped the linen on the bed, a pulsating sensation thrumming between her legs.

Their lovemaking was sometimes rushed, gripped by urgency. This time, he approached her slowly, exploring her body like it was unknown territory. She let him take his time, fighting the urge to drag him on top of her, pull his breeches off and rock him into her heat, to tell him she needed more than tenderness, that it was driving her crazy…

“I want you to show me how you do when you are alone.”

She blinked in surprise.

“What?”

“When you touch yourself. Show me.” His eyes burned like flames of ice.

This was new. Warmth rose in her already flushed face. It was such an intimate request, like he’d asked her to reveal a secret.

Like he wanted no part of her to be foreign to him.

Pale blue eyes met hers, pupils blown up from desire. She knew then, how he wished to be closer than close, how the blood in him sang. Perhaps he had imagined it before, while touching himself?

The thought sent a spike of arousal through her.

She reached down.

Still flustered, she closed her thighs around her hand, but he nudged her knees open. The gentle but firm movement made her writhe in lust.

With her free hand, she searched for his hand to hold it. A glint of tenderness sparked in his eyes.

“Do you think of me when you do this alone?”

She didn’t have to lie.

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I –“ Her breath came out hot and short, “I think of you when I touch myself.”

He smiled, his eyes full of reverence and hunger.

When she let out faint mewls and lifted her hips, he placed his fingers on hers to mimic her movements and returned to her neck with his mouth.

She dug her neck into the pillow, pleading him to go where she wanted,

“Please –”

“What do you want me to do, Rennaugh?”

She drew him in for another kiss before she cast him a heady gaze.

“I want you to make me come.”

His eyes sparked as he drew in breath. He climbed down to trail warm kisses on her abdomen before sliding down between her thighs.

She twitched and gasped when he separated her folds and let the tip of his tongue dart inside her. He soon shifted to lap at her most sensitive point.

She was so close it didn’t take long for him to swirl his tongue at her centre before the shuddering spasms hit her. She tried to stifle her wail, in vain. He continued, vigorously, to ride out her pleasure.

As a child, her mother had once taken her to the cliffs along the coastline to watch the waves crash in and shower them with salty sprays. She dissolved like those waves, hand firmly planted in his hair, thighs closed around his head.

Through her ecstasy, she noticed the flames in the fireplace roared in tune with her release. The burst of flames momentarily lit up the room.

Their eyes met in surprise at the sight.

He made a movement to inspect the fire, but she pulled him back to return the favour.

 

*

 

Resting her head against his shoulder, she listened to the gradual ebbing of their pounding hearts. The orange light of the embers in the fire place cast shadows on the floor.

She observed the ring on her hand, moving her fingers. The gleam of the tiny snake shone like the crystal light of the moon.

He noticed her movement and lifted her right arm to let his long index finger slide down a faint scar that began at her wrist and trailed almost all the way down to her elbow. His touch left her skin tingling.

His eyes wandered down her body. He carefully pushed her on the side to let his hand follow the trail of his gaze, stroking along her hip bones and abdomen. The only sign of emotion was the bob of his Adam’s apple.

She smiled and reveled in the simultaneous softness and edge from his touch.

His calm gaze rested on her centre.

“I can feel it.”

She reached down her own hand to place it on her pelvis, tracing a tiny hard ball underneath her skin, a small mound, with her fingertips.

A wave of tenderness travelled through her, soft like the whisks of butterfly wings.

He nestled her against his chest.

To have a sensation of completeness was extraordinary to her. This night, she accepted it without hesitation.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * mi zini ara nac-um zu salvia tva = I will plough you until you see stars. [Asparrowsfall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_sparrows_fall/pseuds/a_sparrows_fall) has kindly given me the permission to use this great line from their fic [Against the dark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13342728/chapters/31736250). Thank you! 
> 
> The vampiric language in this fic is generally taken from [this](http://etruscans1.tripod.com/Language/) [and this](http://diachronica.pagesperso-orange.fr/TMCJ_vol_3.2_Fournet_Etruscan.pdf) glossary of the Etruscan language and my attempts at creating sentences are not grammatically correct. I’ve simply played around with words.
> 
> Trolde is the name I’ve chosen to give the town connected to Kaer Trolde, which I have interpreted as the fortress on the cliffs. There is no tavern called The Dragon’s Head there, I made that up.
> 
> If there’s room in the heart, there’s room for the arse is a Swedish proverb ^^
> 
> When I edited this chapter, [Rosennazair](https://rosenazair.tumblr.com/) on tumblr posted [screen shots](https://rosenazair.tumblr.com/post/174549206793) of Dettlaff and Regis in Skellige! I asked if I could link to them, because it provided such a nice scenery. Thank you!
> 
> Music inspiration for this chapter: [Let’s make a vow – Diamond Messages](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vxwO2ME8vT4&t=24s).


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t believe, girl, I know! Magic is the embodiment of chaos - a weapon! You, who have the experience of a child, have seen this. You have felt it in yourself!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: there is a false alarm miscarriage in this chapter. If this is something you don’t wish to read, I suggest you skip the beginning of the chapter until Yennefer’s line: “So, it’s already happening.”
> 
> Please find me on [tumblr](http://namesonboats.tumblr.com) if you wish to discuss the fic, such as if there are any tags I should add.

Dettlaff seldom slept. This morning, he woke up to a familiar scent. It hit his mind like a whip; he threw the blanket from off their bodies and breached her sleep as well.

“Rennaugh, wake up. You’re bleeding.”

“What?”

She sat up and extended a hand down to her centre. Her fingers came up, sticky and red.

“Oh.”

The word came out in a mere exhale, her lips trembling.

Icy thorns ran through his heart. The look on her face told him she tried to accept it. She had anticipated it might happen, already pictured it in her mind.

Did she not believe she could hold on to happiness?

“I will find Regis.”

She nodded. He had never seen her eyes so large.

He hastily dressed and pulled open the door to their room. The hinges creaked as it slammed against the wall. He barged down the stairs to the second floor without a thought whether he woke the rest of the establishment up.

Realizing he had no idea where Regis was, Dettlaff fought the impulse to tear the nearest door to shreds.

“Regis!” his voice boomed through the corridor.

Soon, his blood brother opened the door to his right, fully dressed, a quizzical expression on his face.

“It’s Rennaugh.”

Frowning with worry, Regis followed upstairs. They ignored the drowsy, irritated remarks from two other guests who peered out from their doors.

Rennaugh stood by the basin, washing the bed linen. Her face paled as they entered the room. The first cold rays of the sun fell on the hem of the cambric chemise she had put on.

Regis walked in and took her hand in his.

“What is wrong?”

She tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear with a trembling hand.

“I bled. It’s normal. It happens to women all the time, to my mother twice, at least…”

“If it was only a small bleeding, Rennaugh, it is not necessarily an abortion. It is possible…”

Regis’ pitiful expression – it clawed in Dettlaff. He walked up to them and grabbed her by the arms, not caring it might hurt. His companions let go of each other in surprise.

“Reach out, Rennaugh,” he growled, “like you did to me in Brokilon. I felt you. Reach out.”

She hesitated before letting her eyelids flutter close.  

She opened them again, gasping.

“There’s a heartbeat!”

Regis stepped aside. Dettlaff squatted and placed his ear against her abdomen. Even with his heightened hearing, the sound barely reached him, but it was there; a tiny heartbeat, quick like a scared animals’.

He stood to embrace her. She relaxed against his shoulder and let out a long breath.

“May I ask what has caused all this commotion?”

A woman in black hair and lilac eyes entered the room. She wore a black dressing-gown in a flimsy cloth. A faint smell of lilac and gooseberries followed her. Her heeled slippers, adorned with black feathers, clicked against the floor boards.

The sorceress.

She let her evaluative gaze rest on Dettlaff. His skin prickled in discomfort. It was unusual for him to meet a human who knew of his nature, and whenever he did, it didn’t end well.

“A false alarm,” Regis replied, “no need to worry.”

“No?” Yennefer cast an eye to the reddened water in the basin and surveyed Rennaugh’s body.

“What happened?”

Dettlaff frowned at the inquisitive gaze of the sorceress, but he kept quiet. Rennaugh trusted this Yennefer of Vengerberg.

“I’m pregnant and… I was afraid, that…”

Yennefer’s lips parted in surprise.

“So, it’s already happening.”

Dettlaff’s eyes narrowed.

“You knew? How?”

The sorceress’ gaze didn’t leave Rennaugh. Her voice softened.

“Regis told me of your journey. You used your powers to stop a storm? Exertion from using magic is dangerous, Rennaugh, to you and to your child.”

Rennaugh broke free from Dettlaff.

“Was it you, Yennefer? Who helped me? I felt a force come to my aid… It must have been you?”

The sorceress frowned.

“Another force? I’m afraid I don’t know of what you speak. I didn’t know you faced a storm until yesterday.”

Rennaugh shook her head in confusion.

“I was so certain…”

“We have concluded it was a false alarm. Leave us now.” Dettlaff glared at the sorceress.

Yennefer of Vengerberg ignored him. She put her hands on her hips, one of her eyes hidden behind the curtain of her raven locks.

“If it indeed was a Djinn who conjured the storm, then you are still in danger. Whomever controls it may have more wishes.”

Her gaze slanted to Rennaugh’s hand.

“Your ring,” she said and walked up to Rennaugh to place her index finger and thumb around the serpent, “I’ve never seen this metal before.”

“It’s dalvinite,” Regis said, “a metal native to our plane of existence.”

She nodded and let go of Rennaugh’s hand.

“I don’t wish to stay on these islands for much longer. I am not – well any sorceress is unwelcomed here. Besides, too many painful memories... But I have gone to lengths to find out more of this sisterhood, and I will stay to discuss the matters of your magic abilities further, if you wish.”

“Thank you, Yennefer.”

“Day is breaking. How about we share a cup of the local java in my room, Regis?”

He smiled. “I’d love to, although I prefer tea.”

He ushered her out with a nod to the couple.

The door closed behind them. Rennaugh took one of his trembling hands in hers.

“That settles it. I will not use my powers again.”

He intertwined their fingers. “At least not until this child is born, Rennaugh. Promise me.”

She did.

He lifted his eyes beyond her shoulder. A blaze of surprise and disbelief ran through him.

She turned her head.

Several pink buds had erupted from the succulent; blossoms overflowing with colour.

It bloomed, in the start of winter. 

 

*

 

The first snow of the year appeared on Ard Skellig. It fell through the crisp air like dune and transformed the world into milky softness.

Rennaugh squinted against the rays of sun that shone through patches of clouds. She and Regis walked out of the tavern together. The crunch-crunch of their feet on the snow had her smiling.

He accompanied her to the harbour and further towards the hill that lead to the coastal cliffs for a rendezvous with Yennefer. The sorceress would join her there, as she did not want them to be seen together in town. It confirmed Rennaugh’s suspicion that something happened here those years ago that still made Yennefer unwelcome on the Skellige isles.

Children ran past them with their tongues sticking out to catch snowflakes. They spoke of ice skating and mentioned something Rennaugh didn’t understand; salmon jumps. A curled-tailed dog barked enthusiastically at their laughter. Horses strapped to sleighs trotted past with their owners holding leather reins, their breaths like fuming clouds.

Regis asked if she felt any better. As they reached the intersection of roads by the hill, he repeated his concern.

“I’m fine, Regis. Thank you.”

She reveled in the memory of a tiny heartbeat.

“Excellent. May I ask you a question in a different matter, one that concerns your meeting with Yennefer?”

They stopped.

“Tell me, what do you believe is the purpose of magic in this world?”

She hadn’t expected his question. The purpose of magic…

She had often wished to be normal – to not have her powers. She still struggled to identify as a mage. At least she didn’t feel shame or fear anymore.

“Perhaps there is no purpose?” she answered, “perhaps it is a coincidence? A result of the gods’ poor sense of humour?”

“Do not jest, Rennaugh, enlighten me.”

“Regis, I don’t know…”

“Do you believe it is a coincidence you were born with magic?”

She readjusted a perfectly placed fur collar.

“Yes. Like some people are born with raven hair or blue eyes.”

She flicked her eyes to his face, devoid of humour.  

“I - To use it to do good. I was born with magic to use it for good. I must believe this. I wish people would agree! Instead, they think mages wish to gain something more than a place in the societies they - we are born into.”

“I’m pleased this is your answer. You could have believed magic exists to bestow certain rights or powers to certain people, id est, people with magic abilities.”

She shook her head and frowned.

“No. If anything, these powers can be used to harm, to inflict pain, to destroy. I…”

Oh.

No wonder people suspected magic wielders.

“There are mages who share your sentiment. There are those who do not. Can I confess something to you, Rennaugh?”

The question surprised her. She nodded.

“Yennefer was right. I was not the best person to test your abilities in Touissant. I did it to expose myself to magic. To overcome a certain fear of it.”

Rennaugh’s heart constricted. She remembered Regis telling her of his death by the hand of a “particularly vile man”. He must have been a sorcerer. Regis was killed by magic.

She extended a hand to gently squeeze his arm.

He put a hand over hers with a melancholy smile but let go to grab the string of his satchel.

“In your meeting with Yennefer, ask her about the lodge of sorceresses, from her point of view. Triss did tell you of the lodge?”

“She did, but not much. It seemed to be a difficult topic for her.”

“Yes, I suspect it is. Well, the hour for your meeting has struck. Good luck.”

He nodded a goodbye and returned to town.

Rennaugh followed him with her gaze before walking up the hill.

 

*

 

She panted as she reached the top of the cliff. Her condition made her quickly out of breath.

“There you are.”

Yennefer of Vengerberg stood already waiting at the place of their rendezvous, dressed in a black cape with a white fur line, black leggings and heeled boots that reached all the way up to her slender thighs.

“I trust you are feeling better? Come, walk with me.”

They strolled along the cliff, away from the town and further down the slope towards the ridge of the hills that separated Trolde from the inlands.

“Is Dettlaff the father of your child?”

Rennaugh gaped at the bluntness of Yennefers abrupt question.

“It is only natural that I ask. A human, bearing a child with a monster? It is unheard of. True, Ciri’s father was a giant hedgehog, but he was cursed and thus not an actual monster…”

“Don’t call him that.”

“Oh, _I_ don’t necessarily see your vampire as a monster,” Yennefer waved her hand, “but most people would if they knew of his nature, this you must admit. Is he not still banned from Beauclair? Did he not commit monstrous acts?”

Rennaugh’s swallowed.

“There is a difference between committing monstrous acts and being a monster.”

“Is it now?”

Yennefer stopped.

“I advise you all to do your utmost to keep his nature a secret now that you are _enceinte_ , as you say in Touissant. If people understood, what do you think they would do to you? To your child? Yes, you do understand, by the way your face just lost color...”

Yennefers voice softened as they continued their stroll.

“Rennaugh, you are surely not the first woman to sleep with a higher vampire. He is admittedly handsome, as they tend to be.” She made a pause, a certain glint in her eye. “Perhaps you are the first to survive such an encounter?”

Rennaugh pursed her lips.

“Neither are you the first mage to bear a child,” Yennefer continued, “I know Regis have told you about the infertility of sorceresses. The book I mentioned yesterday by Agnes of Glanville speaks of it in length. It depends on how much and for how long you use magic. If my sources are correct, these ixas of the sisterhood you seek had the ability to bare children although they used magic, extensively. I want to know how.”

Yennefer’s directed her gaze to the sea. To Rennaugh’s surprise, her eyes glittered with tears.

All the anger drained from her. She understood why Yennefer had gone to such lengths to help her find information of the Dathmori.

She extended a hand but retracted it. This woman did not want her pity.

Yennefer straightened her back in an irritated gesture.

“I have two more things I wish to discuss. Let’s get it over with before we both freeze our lovely bottoms off.”

“Are you going to tell me what you wrote in your last letter to Triss?”

Yennefer snapped her lilac, narrowing eyes to hers.

“Clever girl. Yes, another letter was sent, and yes, I am going to tell you. But before I do –”

The sorceress stopped again, hands on her hips, the sun gleaming in her locks that welled from under her cape.

“I want you to express your intentions of this journey, Rennaugh. You say you wish to find out the truth of this ancient sisterhood of sorceresses.”

Yennefer held her gaze sternly.

“Have you considered the consequences of such an uncovering?”

It was Rennaugh’s turn to be surprised. First Regis, now Yennefer, wanting from her The Truth. But why this question, when Yennefer had gone to such lengths to find out more about the dathmori?

She tried to find the right words.

“I’m hoping to find… to understand myself better. All my life I’ve been afraid to expose my abilities. I’ve felt like a misfit, even to my own family. I’ve had nothing to –“

She darted her eyes to Yennefer’s.

“Ever since I learned what you uncovered, the knowledge of this Dathmori, I’ve known I have go to Hindarsfjall. It’s like I’m being pulled by a string.”

Yennefer folded her arms.

“Perhaps brought up the way you were, you find the thought of being part of something so powerful alluring?”

“No! I only want to understand!”

“Has anyone ever told you ‘knowledge is power’?”

Rennaugh stood straight, her jaw clenched.

“Tell me of your last letter, Yennefer. And of the lodge of sorceresses.”

Yennefer did not flinch. She grabbed Rennaugh by the arm.

“This conversation is going to take longer than I thought. Come, lets walk south. There is a lake not far from here - it provides a nice scenery for a chat.”

 

*

 

Yennefer told first of the lodge of sorceresses. By the tense expression on her face, it was not her favourite topic of conversation. Rennaugh asked questions, Yennefer answered them, dryly. The creak of their heels against the snow upset a few magpies who flapped from tall pine trees.

The lake did provide a nice scenery. Not yet covered in ice, the waters mirrored the grey sky and glittered where the sun broke through the clouds.

Rennaugh understood two things: The lodge was formed to protect the interest of magic over the power of kings and nations after a battle where former allies within the magic community turned against each other. Led by a sorceress named Philippa Eilheart, the purpose was to include Cirilla into their ranks and make sure she ascended the throne of Nilfgaard and married the right consort. Only then would the interests of magic be ensured.  

Yennefer didn’t tell her everything, that much was clear. But Rennaugh understood she had protected Cirilla, against corruption from fellow sorceresses, and her life, nearly sacrificing herself in the process.

“I hear what you say, Yennefer, I still can’t see how Triss fits into the picture you’ve painted…”

She expected Yennefer to sneer, to her surprise, the sorceress gained a soft expression.

“Triss believes in the ability to do good, with magic or without it. She’s always tried to do the right thing, chosen sides for the greater good. Her naivete has been used, and she knows it, still she refuses to lose her faith. I hope her idea of a school of magi for children will give the results she desires…”

“Do you not believe in the ability to do good with magic?”

Yennfers eyes flashed. The small snowflakes on top of her hood glistened in the light from the cold sun above them.

“I don’t believe, girl, I know! Magic is the embodiment of chaos - a weapon! You, who have the experience of a child, have seen this. You have felt it in yourself!”

Rennaugh swallowed as the sorceress grabbed her arms.

“In my last letter I spoke of a prophecy made by an ancient priest class from the old clan of Otkell. You have heard the legend of Otkell, Heimdall’s son?”

Rennaugh nodded. Otkell, who erected the temple of Freya on Hindarsfjall.

“The tome I found stated; she who will restore the Dathmori will come with those who cannot die, and she will carry The One Who Comes After, a child that will rise to become the most powerful ixa of all time.”

The blood in Rennaugh’s head rushed down to her feet. She would have stumbled if Yennefer hadn’t held her.

Cold crept through her veins in a way that had nothing to do with the snow that fell on their hooded heads. The ones who cannot die. A child that would…

“Do you understand, Rennaugh? “Yennefer said, “this prophecy cannot come true. The Dathmori can never be revived.”

 

*

 

Later, Rennaugh entered Regis’ room in the inn. Dettlaff was already there. She immediately told them of the prophecy.

Dettlaff reacted with anger, Regis without surprise. Yennefer told him of the prophecy the night before, and it strengthened his motif for coming to Skellige.

It confirmed the story of the dathmori had something to do with vampires, and he was determined to find out what.

“Our child is not to become some pawn of this… organisation of sorceresses, do you hear me Rennaugh?” Dettlaff pointed at her, shaking with withheld rage.

“I agree,” she said calmly, “I’d never let our child be used by anyone. It’s just a legend.”

It took the wind out of his sails. He let his hand drop, his face still hard.

She sat down on the chair Regis gestured for her and accepted a cup of herbal tea.

“Yennefer has agreed to stay on Ard Skellig for another week to speak to me about magic. I wish to travel to Hindarsfjall as soon as she leaves.”

The vampires agreed.

“She told me of the destruction of Freya’s garden,” Rennaugh continued. “It’s why she can’t go there, they surely still hate her for it.”

“How did you react when she told you?” Regis asked.

“At first I was angered. She ruined holy ground – a place I have wanted to visit since I was a child. She uses magic in ways that confirms everything my stepfather would slander mages to do. Then I learned she did it to find her daughter. And I couldn’t be angry anymore.”

“Rennaugh,” Dettlaff grumbled, “I know you still wish to seek out information of this sisterhood. But if this endangers you, or the child in any way, we _will_ leave.”

She remained silent but nodded shortly, avoiding his gaze. A blush rose from her neck to her cheeks. 

“Yennefer said something else…”

“Yes?” Regis asked.

“She spoke of the importance to keep your nature a secret.”

Dettlaff folded his arms. “Of course.”

She frowned.

“Perhaps it’s necessary – but it’s not fair.”

Regis made a face. He often found Rennaugh to be wise beyond her twenty-one years. Not in this moment.  

“Were you hoping your union might change the mindset of people regarding vampires, Rennaugh? That monsters would be accepted into human society on the merit of your good example?”

“You’re not monsters!” her blush intensified.

“We both have our debt to pay to humankind.”

Dettlaff’s visage darkened.

“I don’t know what you have done to say such a thing, Regis,” Rennaugh exhaled, “but I can imagine.”

She darted her eyes to both vampires.

“I do know this: I have seen both of you kill. You do it humanely; swiftly, without suffering. I was a child when the war broke out. During the reconstruction of Cintra, the first thing they rebuilt in the new marketplace were the gallows. I’ve seen how humans kill! They remove eyes and breasts with hot pincers, they burn women accused of witchcraft alive!”

“The issue of us integrating into human society is… delicate, Rennaugh,” Regis sighed, “if not virtually impossible. If people knew vampires live among them – because we do – it would surely cause an outcry. They would demand purgatory actions from their rulers, pogroms.”

Regis pictured Orianna in her estate in Beauclair. He gained a worried expression.

“The elder races, also vampires, speak of our precarious situation in this world as if the mere presence of humans is the root cause. Above all, the tendency for humans to quickly and numerously procreate is blamed. ‘They multiply like rabbits’ it is said.”

He huffed.

“As if the ability to have children would be decisive for our own demise. The tendency for elves, and indeed us vampires to not breed in vast numbers is simply related to our long lifespan. Humans, however…

Rennaugh listened with aching heart. The vapor from the hot tea warmed her face.

“To adapt, or to perish, those were the term we needed to accept. So – many adapted. Traded. Moved into cities. Regarding the elves, some refused to adapt, and still fight their guerrilla wars. But should the elves of today wish to exterminate humankind, they would find it impossible – because of how elves and humans have consorted and procreated. Human and elven blood is inevitably intermingled. Still, they pretend they can be separated into alienage’s or 'ethnically pure' geographical turfs…”

“Like Dhol Blathanna?”

“Indeed.”

She placed the cup in her lap.

“Can – would it be possible for humans and vampires to, intermingle?”

“No, Rennaugh. We cannot procreate like humans and elves –“

Regis slanted his gaze to her centre.

“That is, we haven’t, until now.”

He stroked one of his large, grey sideburns.

“This _is_ still a mystery.”

“You will always have to hide,” she whispered, “no matter whether this child is a vampire or human, he or she will always have to hide their origin.”

“We should hide our nature to his child if it is human,” Dettlaff said, “it is best if it never knows.”

Rennaugh’s eyes teared.

“That’s cruel.”

“The world is cruel!” Dettlaff growled, “You have seen the cruelty of men! To protect this child, I would rather it never knew I existed…”

She stood up and placed a hand over her mouth. Drops from her tea spilled on the planks of the floor.

He walked to embrace her.

“No, I don’t wish… I’ve given a vow to stay with you. But it is best to hide our nature nevertheless.”

Regis shook his head. There was much to say of the matter. Vampires had effectively created societies much like those he accused of inequity. In Touissant, hundreds of years ago, humans were treated more of less like cattle, until they rebelled.

He decided those stories were best not to mention at this moment.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Vaginal bleedings in early pregnancy](https://www.nhs.uk/conditions/pregnancy-and-baby/vaginal-bleeding-pregnant/) are fairly common and may or may not be a sign something is wrong. If this happens to you or your partner, please contact a midwife or a gynaecologist. 
> 
> Racial tension if often a major theme in fantasy. In the witcher world, I find it to be an interesting issue regarding higher vampires, as they intermingle in human societies incognito. 
> 
> My husband pointed out the Jurassic Park reference – it is accidental :D


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well,” replied Regis, “I can assure you we are neither marauders nor wolves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: This chapter contains a recollection of a child dying. If you wish to skip that part, stop reading from the sentence “A part of me wishes it can – that it is a vampire” and start again at “As they exited the bathroom”.

Rennaugh spent a week in conversation with Yennefer. Every night, she returned to her and Dettlaff’s room, ecstatic from the opportunity to discuss matters so close to her heart with another, especially someone so powerful as Yennefer of Vengerberg.

One night, she mustered the courage to ask the sorceress of her motivation.

“Yennefer, about these ixa’s being able to bare children…”

Violet eyes flashed to hers.

“Is that why you think I’m doing this?”

Rennaugh closed her mouth.

“I _have_ a daughter. Many sorceresses don’t. Do you think I am the only magic wielder who mourns their infertility? The only one who will?”

The air in the room grew thicker. The nausea returned and pressed against Rennaugh’s throat.

Yennefer placed her slender hand on a leather-bound tome on her desk, tracing its golden-etched title with her index finger.

“It started with curiosity. I do take interest in the history of magic – I excelled in the subject at Aretuza. The more I found on this sisterhood, the more I realized it could mean trouble. No matter the degree of truth regarding these ixa’s, it has inflammatory political potential. This you cannot deny, Rennaugh, no matter how much you claim you ‘only wish to know yourself’.”

She leaned forward to let her elbows rest on her crossed legs.

“Now, let us speak of the first time you found your powers.”

A few hours later, Rennaugh returned to her room, troubled from the sorceresses’ harsh teachings.

Yennefer wasn’t impressed by Rennaugh’s musings on magic, nor her abilities. She called them “basic”, “nonsense”, “and frankly, dull.” Hurt from Yennefers words, Rennaugh tried to steel her heart. Don’t be over-sensitive, she told herself. Cheeks burning, she had never thought of herself as so uneducated, so unsophisticated before.

Yennefer could be kind and encouraging. She gave Rennaugh two valuable books to study. Together, they explored memories of Rennaugh’s abilities to understand what they meant. She nodded when Rennaugh conversed on topics Yennefer deemed worthy. Rennaugh wished to be Yennefer’s friend, but the sorceress’ oscillations between kindness and judgement exhausted her. 

Dettlaff didn’t comment much on her meetings with the sorceress, until one night she came back to their room, placed her head in her hands, and broke out in tears.

“You don’t know this Yennefer,” he said. “Neither does she know you. You shouldn’t let her affect you this way. Don’t let her treat you like you weren’t worthy of respect.”

“I’m tired, that’s all.”

Dettlaff had a valid point, still, Yennefer’s words occupied Rennaugh’s mind for entire days. Only her pregnancy could distract her; it helped clear her mind, to appreciate what really mattered. During the days, she took strolls in town with Dettlaff. Each night, she fell asleep on his arm.

After the morning with the bleeding, Rennaugh’s nausea slowly subdued. Her strengths returned with the ability to keep her food.

Yennefer and Rennaugh spoke of the Dathmori, and of the books leaking from the islands to lay on dust-filled bookshelves in obscure places on the continent. Yennefer assured her they could expect much of their teachings to be untrue. Others probably knew of the prophecy; people either proponents or opponents to such a twist of history. The rise of an organisation of sorceresses would be seen in the light of the conflict-ridden history of magic advisors to royalty, not to mention the aspirations of the lodge.

On such an occasion, a break occurred between the two. Rennaugh insisted the intention of the Dathmori should be judged by its own right, not by its association with other similar groups. Again, Yennefer scolded her for being naïve and basic, and this time, Rennaugh retorted in irritation.

“You can’t say such things every time I don’t agree with you, Yennefer. Am I not a person, with the right to my own thought and mind? Do you care so little for my feelings?”

“Your feelings,” the sorceress replied with narrowing eyes, “are telling of your character. I give you advice, and you react to them by wallowing in self-pity. You may have raw talent, but magic is more – it is keen study, arduous work, it is knowledge. I had greater expectations of you, Rennaugh. I expected you to learn, to grow. I see nothing of that yet.”

Yennefer might be right, Rennaugh thought. But she isn’t my friend.

 

*

 

High priestess Sigrdrifa strolled through temple grounds to reach the grove. She passed the long stone wall adorned with arcs and loops that enclosed the vast garden – rounding it by foot took hours.

She remembered when lush ivy covered the stone walls and crept up the statues of the garden, when the herbs sprouted in spring and the flowers broke through fertile soil. Nowhere on the island had the ground been so covered in green. Hawthorn, sprurge, barewart, monk’s head, eyebright, true-love, verbena, celandine, juniper, broom and aspen; a fraction of the various herbs previously harvested in Freya’s garden. 

The ground Sigrdrifa treaded today laid barren underneath a blanket of snow. Come spring, the garden would not awake; not since the sorceress decided to drain its magic to perform necromancy those years ago.

With the death of the garden, the entire island deteriorated.

Sigrdrifa didn’t hate Yennefer of Vengerberg. She hoped the goddess would find it in her heart to forgive her. She remembered Freya willingly giving the Brisingamen to the sorceress to use in her search for Cirilla, the child of the elder blood. Sigrdrifa knew Ciri before the death of her parents. She cared for the child.

The great mother must have known Yennefer of Vengerberg would return to also claim her grove. It all must have a meaning.

The high priestess stopped in front of the Bough of Dathí, the great ash that loomed over the centre of the sacred garden. In spring, its boughs used to transform into a formidable green cloud, offering shade to everyone who visited the garden. Each Birke, or Walpurgis as it was called on Skellige, the priestesses gave a small portion of its astringent sap to the children of the island for good health and for protection from evil.

Today, it too stood dead, its branches forever naked.

The other night, Sigrdrifa had greeted the young druid Bran to the temple quarters. Together, they prepared for the celebration of the Midinvaerne, the winter solstice. Skellige followed both the elven calendar and the common twelve-month calendar with the addition of the varvinter season; the time of the year when the cold still reined the islands, but the sun returned to spill its sharp light over the crystal snow, making the Skelligers turn their faces with eyes closed, drinking the rays like fine wine.

The druid already spoke of Walpurgis, the celebration of the return of the sun and the awakening of the lands. It was four months away, Sigrdrifa smilingly reminded him. He insisted on the importance of rehearsing early. He wished to perform the saga of Freya and her lover Svipdag, a true epos that required a strong voice. Both put their hopes in the new priestess, Elsinore, to sing it.

Without these rituals and concerts, Sigrdrifa feared the people of Hindarsfjall might succumb to believing the goddess had abandoned them. The celebrations reduced the pain from the death of the garden, of the meagre crops and the increasing poverty, of the youth leaving the island. It gave the people a reason to come together and pray for the difficult years to soon come to an end.

Bran’s reports on the brotherhood of druids worried her. A month ago, they had killed a group of drowners near a settlement on the east coast of Ard Skellig.

Druids killing monsters. These were strange times indeed.

Sigrdrifa rested her palm against the great trunk of the ash and recited a prayer.

Gasping, she retracted as if the bark had bit her.

The tree – it moved. It stretched its groaning fibres in a great yawn. She must have imagined it; but no, beside her tumbled a speck of snow from its branches, stirred by the movement.

To subdue the hammering of her heart, the High priestess stood completely still.

She would later call this the first sign.              

 

*

 

The same morning, the trio of Rennaugh, Dettlaff and Regis arrived at the harbour outside Larvik, two days after the departure of Yennefer of Vengerberg from Ard Skellig.

During the trip, Rennaugh thoughts lingered on Yennefer.

She should have been clearer with Yennefer the first night they met – she didn’t wish to become a sorceress in the professional meaning of the term. She didn’t aspire to join the lodge or become an advisor of royalty.

Their different outlook on the purpose of magic didn’t form fertile soil for consensus.

Rennaugh didn’t know Yennefer, but she could sense the sacrifices she had made. She understood some of it related to Geralt. They equally mentioned Cirilla as their daughter, why they must have had a former relationship.

Yennefer seemed to her like a two-edged sword. It could cut, but it could also vigorously defend.

Somewhere inside Rennaugh laid a core belief that although Yennefer of Vengerberg hadn’t deemed her worthy of care, it didn’t mean she wasn’t worthy of care all together. A voice in her heart told her cold criticism could at best be informative, but never helpful.

In another corner of her heart, Rennaugh missed the sorceress with the force of someone who felt moments, albeit short, of true companionship in shared interest and struggle.

She remembered her exhaustion from their conversations and decided to look to what laid before her.

The town of Larvik was built on top of the cliffs, surrounded by a tall palisade of pine trees. The smell of fir sap and newly baked bread reached them as they climbed the steep road leading from the harbour to town. The snow crunched underneath their boots, and the frigid wind swung the tree branches and bit their cheeks.

At the gates, a guard asked their names and purpose of entering. He had blue eyes and a blonde mane under his cap. Dressed in chainmail over a whale skin vest so worn it gleamed, the young guard looked nervous.

“Is such suspicion custom?” Regis asked, “We are but travellers wishing to visit the town.”

The guard blushed and shifted the grip of his spear.

“It’s a safety measure issued by the Jarl. We’ve had some recent trouble with a band of marauders, and the wolves are acting aggressive too.”

“Well,” replied Regis, “I can assure you we are neither marauders nor wolves.” The comment made the guard snort in a laughter. “My name is Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, and these are my companions, Dettla…”

“Regis Terseff Godfrey?” the guard interrupted him, “Aye, I’ve heard of you! The jarl’s nephew, Gunnar an Hindar, told me to look for you! I’m sorry if I didn’t get all your names right…”

They shared glances. Sigvard had held his promise.

 

*

 

The guard named Eigil Larson curiously glanced at the newcomers. The men wore clothes fit for a milder climate than the Skellige winter; they must be freezing. Still, they both gave an impression of strength and... foreignness. The one with the sideburns smelled strongly of fresh herbs. The woman was young, and somehow familiar. He noticed a scar on her face behind her hooded cloak. She must be the wife of the man in the black clothes, judging by the way he held his hand on the small of her back – although he seemed twice her age. Perhaps Regis Godfrey was her father?

On their way to Gunnar an Hindar, Eigil pointed out the town armorer, the shop, and the tavern called the House of Warriors. They passed the blacksmith from where clinks of iron resonated against hot steel. The villagers cast curious glances at the visitors, a few children pointed and whispered behind their hands. Eigil shoved a wandering pig away with his foot.

Well at Gunnar and Hindar’s house, a large residential abode with a boar’s head parading on top of the entrance, he introduced the trio to the wife of Gunnar and marched back to his post by the palisade.

Later that night, Eigil’s father Lars told him Gunnar an Hindar had sublet his hunting cottage on the taiga to the trio, who consisted of a barber-surgeon, a herbalist and a craftsman. The rumours spread fast in town. His father also told him the newcomers had in some way helped one of Gunnar an Hindars cousins, the one of An Skellig.

The news of the trio living in the cottage surprised Eigil enough to choke on his ale. Crazed wolves infested the taiga, and recently a band of marauders called the Antlers had settled not far from there.

Was Gunnar an Hindar mad?

They insisted, his father told him, claiming a pack of wolves or bandits surely wouldn’t give them any trouble. So, Gunnar placed their packing on his sled and left for the taiga with the visitors.

“Freya knows the addition of two healers is welcome news!” his mother exclaimed and served his father another plate of freshly caught, smoked salmon. “With the lack of healing herbs on this island, we sure could use all the help we can get!”

Eigil still wondered where he had seen the woman before.

 

*

 

Sitting on the sleigh pulled by the robust horse, Rennaugh stroked her hand over the soft hairs of the reindeer fur underneath her. She turned her head, eyes open wide to take everything in. The winter landscape of south-eastern Hindarsfjall appeared like in her dreams; snow perching like glittering clouds on the branches of tall fir trees, that formed patches of forests together with lanky birches and pines trees, the light of the sun faintly shining through the crisp air, the roaring of the sea from the distance and the looming mountains to the north.

She drank in the surroundings like water, let it enter her eyes and ears and skin and mind until it filled her to the brim.

She glanced at Dettlaff who stared ahead of them, lost in thought.

The cousin of Sigvard, Gunnar an Hindar, was a man in his mid-forties, with a ginger beard and chestnut hair. He sported a large belly underneath his coat, telling of his position. He proved to be less jovial than Sigvard, but nonetheless polite.

From his position by the reins of the sleigh, he spoke to them again of the Antlers, the band of thieves harassing the smaller villages around Larvik and Lofoten. They were former smugglers, squatting in an old outpost near the southeastern coast. A bounty of 400 ducats was offered to whomever brought their heads to the Jarl, Axel an Hindar in Lofoten.

Regis politely conversed about the volcanic soil of Hindarsfjall and its propensity for agriculture, which mostly consisted of grain and oats, where the rocky landscape permitted it. The last decade was marked by svagår – the local name for years with little yield from the crops. The island depended on import of grains and fruit. The main export were furs, timber and to some extent, iron, mined in the south. The problems with the wolves and bandits hurt the entire economy of the islands.

The weight in his words prevented Rennaugh to ask him of her father. There would be time later, she thought.

They reached the cottage after a half an hour’s ride. Although unused since almost a decade, Gunnar assured them it should be habitable. He left them after inspecting there were enough firewood to warm the stove and promised to come back and check on them in two days’ time.

They thanked him.

The cabin was more of a cottage, like Sigvard had told them. Built of logs in one and a half storey, it served well as lodging, with an accompanying annex, a privy and a small woodshed. The entrance led to a hall interconnected with the kitchen, where they found a fully functioning iron stove as well as a walled fireplace. The kitchen table fell apart when Dettlaff placed their packing on top of it, but the rest of the meagre furniture were mostly intact. It smelled of dust and mouse droppings inside.

The most striking aspect of the cabin was its glass window panes. It spoke of it belonging to a wealthy proprietor. Despite the cold, Rennaugh opened them to let in some fresh air. Regis lit a fire from the logs Dettlaff carried inside.

On the other side of the room, she found a door to a bedroom with a single bedframe and a small desk. Another door opened to a small room used for storage; she found fishing nets, moldy furs and a broken crossbow. She climbed the stairs from the hallway to the second floor, which opened to a single, large loft. It too had a walled fireplace but was empty of furniture. She reckoned it had been used as bedroom. The remains of a borean owl told her the cabin hadn’t been completely uninhabited these years after Gunnar an Hindar left it.

The languid door to the annex protested with a creak as Rennaugh tried to open it. She pushed hard, erupting a cloud of dust. 

She stepped in to a large, dust filled room, mostly empty besides another work bench at the short end. Dulled sunrays shone through the dirty windows and fell on a tub made of planks fit together with stringy fibres.

She let out a squeak of delight.

It took her two hours to heat up enough water to fill the tub. When Dettlaff noticed her carrying containers of hot water to the annex, he grabbed them from her.

“I don’t want you to carry heavy things.”

Her initial irritation melted to affection.

Rummaging through her packing, she found the bars of Touissant soap, her comb and towel, and ran back to the annex.

Sighing, she lowered her body into the soapy warmth of the water and let go of all the tensions she’d accumulated since they left Touissant.

Rennaugh caressed the swelling of her abdomen absentmindedly, wondering if the little life inside her could feel itself being enclosed by two bodies of water.

The warmth of the room temporarily drained when Dettlaff stepped in. 

He sat down beside her to let his hand caress her hair, outlined the shape of her ear, and followed the column of her neck. His sleeve got soaked as his fingers gingerly trailed down her body. His heavy gaze followed his hand.

She opened her eyes and leaned forward to grab his arm, urging him to join her. His eyes widened.

It couldn’t be the first time he took a bath with someone?

It would be hers. She eagerly reached for the buttons on his tunic.

 

*

 

She leaned her neck against his shoulder, back against his front. The waters vibrated with heat, the steam painted the windowpanes foggy.

Dettlaff made a face.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes. Being in water always makes me feel… like I am about to dissolve.”

“We don’t have to do this.”

He enclosed her in his arms.

“No, I’m fine. I feel grounded when I am near you.”

She smiled.

“Dettlaff, what were you like when you were young?”

He moved to align their bodies more comfortably.

“I am not sure we are the best judge of our own person. But if you could ask anyone who knew me as a young vampire… my guess is they would say I haven’t changed much.”

“No?”

“No. Vampires go through stages of maturity as much as humans. I did too, but…”

“I wish I knew you then.”

He let his lips trace the shell of her ear. She shivered despite the warmth.

“Well I did meet Regis as a young vampire on a few occasions.”

“You did? What was he like?”

“He was… I think it’s best if you ask him yourself.”

“Why?” She cast at glance up to his face. “Was he immature?”

“Let’s just say he’s made a journey.”

She rested in a brief silence.

“Dettlaff, what is it like to be a vampire child?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

“I have few memories before I was around ten years old. But vampire children are not very different from humans. We don’t grow fangs or learn how to shapeshift until around five or six. Some believe this is a result of adaptation.”

“We won’t know for certain whether this child is a vampire or not until around that age?”

“If he or she casts a shadow or regenerates, then we will know.”

She hesitated before continuing.

“A part of me wishes it can – that it is a vampire.” She cast him a glance, blushing. “I know about your pain, and no, I don’t wish it on our child, but…”

He remained silent to let her continue. She sat up and folded her arms around her knees, splashing the water.

“Have I told you one of my brothers was born idiot? I hate that epithet, as if being different makes you a moron. He wasn’t. He smiled and laughed and brought us nothing but happiness. ‘He is joy incarnate,’ my mother said. ‘He’ll bring you nothing but trouble’, people said. We didn’t care, we loved him.”

She raked a hand through wet locks.

“One morning, I awoke knowing something was wrong. My brother laid next to me, cold. He was only seven months old. I’ll never forget my sisters kissing him goodbye. I couldn’t cry. After him, two other babies were born. Both died.”

She made a motion to stand up.

“So forgive me for wanting my child to outlive me.”

He grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her back against him to hold her until he felt her tensed muscles relax, until her breath slowed to become less ragged.

They laid there until the water cooled.

 

*

 

As they exited the bathroom, Regis greeted them with a crackling fire and an opened bottle of wine.

“Ah, my friends, if you are finished performing your ablutions, perhaps you would join me in a celebratory glass of Est Est? I saved a bottle for the occasion.”

With a smile, he apologized for not serving the wine in crystal glasses.

“A toast to our journey’s end. Welcome to Hindarsfjall!”

They toasted with crude wooden jugs.

Outside, the cry of wolves pieced the starry night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I see Yennefer as a person who has been through too much, and is too powerful, to have any patience with naïve notions on magic. I wanted to stay true to some of the difficult parts of her character, but I don’t see her as a bad person for disliking my oc. It would be unrealistic if everyone liked Rennaugh. Yennefer will play a decisive role in this fic, but that is for later!
> 
> [The Bough of Dathí](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Celtic_sacred_trees) – see “Ash section” is non-canonical. I was inspired by Scandinavian as well as Celtic mythology when I wrote this fic, and I liked the idea of a sacred ash in the garden of Freya. 
> 
> I’ve modelled the cabin after the Swedish [Fäbodar](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Transhumance), like [this house](http://bildarkiv.mittjas.se/#!album-0-6) in Hälsingland called Mittjasvallen (only I imagine their cabin to be smaller).
> 
> I imagine Rennaugh’s brother was born with [Down syndrome](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Down_syndrome).


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I’ve come to see the woman called Rennaugh."

Against Rennaugh’s knowledge, Yennefer never left Ard Skellig. She waited. The same day the trio arrived on Hindarsfjall, a sizzling soared in her room in Trolde.

The sorceress knew the sound.

Triss Merigold stepped out through the blurry, orange contours of a portal. She adjusted her leather bodice and lifted her hands to ensure the two buns of her copper hair were in place. The square pendant of her necklace gleamed in the light of the open fire.

Yennefer smiled, hand on her hip.

“I see you have received my letter.”

She opened her arms. There was no hesitation in their embrace.

“I opened a portal immediately after I got it. Is she here?”

“Why Triss, we haven’t seen each other since Kaer Morhen…”

The red-haired sorceress smiled and shook her head.  

“I’m sorry, Yenna. How are you?”

Yennefer waved her hand in a way Triss interpreted as ‘fine’ and sat down on the chair next to the writing desk, legs crossed.

“So,” she said, “Geralt is not with you? I guess Skellige in winter never was his thing.”

Triss played with a feathered pencil on Yennefer’s desk.

“He’s in Nilfgaard. He’s paying a visit to Ciri.”

A small wrinkle appeared between Yennefers eyebrows.

“I was planning on going there myself…”

“Why not? Ciri would be happy to meet you both.”

Triss’ bit her lip. Her question came out a bit too fast.

Yennefer didn’t answer. She stood up to play with her star necklace.

A weight settled on Triss’ chest. Everything that needed to be said had been said. So why did it still hurt?

“Have you visited Cerys?”

“Yes, shortly. She doesn’t know I’m still here, and she doesn’t know about the girl.”

Yennefer sighed. “I do miss Crach.”

“Yennefer, about your letter…”

The raven-haired sorceress raised an eyebrow. The plush fabric of her black, ruffled top made a soft sound as she crossed her arms.

“Yes, it seems your little protégé is destined to revive an ancient sisterhood of sorceresses. Tell me Triss; how is it we did not know of these ixas? True, they existed long ago, and true, there has been some serious attempts at erasing all memory of them. But still…”

“You’ve met her then.”

“I have. She and her vampires left for Hindarsfjall yesterday. I must say, Triss, I don’t trust her. She’s foolish, and uneducated. To have such raw power and such lack of respect. She’s a hazard.”

Triss shook her head and snorted.

“What did you do to her?”

“I tried to reason with her! To speak of the elements, of the nature of magic! I gave her books, valuable ones, and…”

“Please don’t tell me you gave her _The poisoned source_.”

Yennefer placed her hands on her hips and frowned. “Triss, please. Even _I_ wouldn’t be so callous.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Did you know she’s already pregnant?”

Triss’ mouth fell open. She sat down on the chair, staring on the floor planks.

“That means…”

“It means we will see the world’s first spawn between a human and a vampire, at least that we know of.”

Yennefer scoffed. “Which should be impossible – not to mention gravely foolish!”

“I need to go to her.”

Triss made a motion to stand up. Yennefer placed a hand on her shoulder and pressed her back onto the chair.

“Please Triss, stay for the night at least. We need to speak more. Above all,” her eyes narrowed, “you need to promise me Philippa learns nothing of this.”

 

*

 

It took Rennaugh and the vampires two full days of arduous work to clean out the cabin of dust and debris. They removed cobwebs and mouse droppings, they redid the white-wash of the fireplace. Dettlaff and Rennaugh undertook small-scale construction work; thatching a small hole in the roof, replacing patches of the plastered straw mixed with mud that served as isolation. Regis made sure they had a well-stocked larder; at least as well-stocked as the winter allowed, plus making sure they had meals and enough firewood.

Rennaugh delighted in living with two men who both enjoyed tidiness and therefore never left cleaning chores to her; a welcome contrast to her step-father.

As Dettlaff unpacked his satchel, he let out a silent Nazarian curse.

“What’s wrong?”

“One of my tools broke during the trip. It’s nothing.”

“Let me see.”

It was an instrument for carving wood, small and spoon-like. The sight of its broken halves saddened Rennaugh. Perhaps he had used it when crafting the miniature horses to her sisters – the ones now parading on top of a chest of drawers in the kitchen.  

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing,” he repeated.

During the nights, Dettlaff used the annex as a workshop for crafting a new kitchen table, two chairs and a swab sofa.

On the morning of the second day, Gunnar returned on his sleigh. Rennaugh admired his heavy draft stallion, Fafner. It was the largest horse she had ever seen, but kind and mild. Skellige had two breeds of horses, Gunnar told her – the Skellige northern draft, such as Fafner, and the Fjording, a smaller but equally sturdy breed, always of dun color and with a black dorsal stripe. Gunnar lit up when he spoke of horses.

“Fafner has already sired three fine foals!” he boasted.

He offered Rennaugh a ride with him back to Larvik to restock anything they needed. She happily accepted. This time, she would ask him about her father.

The snow moaned under the skids of Gunnar’s sleigh. Clouds burst from the nostrils of the cantering Fafner as the temperature sunk below freezing point.

The cold on Hindarsfjall felt different compared to the wet winters of Cintra; dryer, and thus more bearable, although the crisp air threatened to crack Rennaugh’s lips whenever she spoke.

“My lord –“

“Please, call me Gunnar.”

“Gunnar,” she started anew, “I would like to ask you of a man, born on this island. He left a few years prior to the fall of Cintra. His name was Didrik.”

Gunnar stiffened.

“How do you know of that name?”

“He was my father.”

He stared at her. The horse snorted and slowed to a gait.

“You are the child of Didrik and Bergphóra?”

Rennaughs heart beat accelerated.

“I am! Please, did you know them?”

To her surprise, Gunnar pulled the reins; the horse came to a halt. Her body jerked from the motion.

“On these islands”, Gunnar said, “we do not believe in the inheritance of shame. But know that no one will speak to you of Didrik.”

Rennaugh’s face burned.

“Please, tell me what happened!”

“You do not know? They never told you?”

She shook her head.

“My father died when I was little, during the second battle of Sodden. My mother never told me why they left Skellige. I only want to understand…”

“I can’t speak to you of this. I’m sorry. But perhaps…” He lifted the reins in a signal for Fafner to pull again, “perhaps you will find answers at Lars’. Do you remember the young guard who showed you the way to my house? His name is Eigil. If what you say is true, he is your cousin.”

 

*

 

Dettlaff materialized near the entrance of a cave, a deep outcrop into the south eastern mountains. The sun set, the shadows of the firs grew long on the sides of the surrounding cliffs.

A pack of wolves rested within the cave. Scattered noises, panting and growls reverberated against the stone walls.

Dettlaff stepped into the breach in the cliff.

A few of the younger wolves yelped in surprise. He had anticipated their reaction. The whole pack stared at him, snarling with scrunched snouts and fangs bare.

With a motion of his hand, the snarls transformed into whimpers, stiffened tails tucked between hind legs. Heads lifted to him, long tongues hung from panting jaws.

Their leader, a large white female, told him of the island. Of the lands hurting; the decrease of the largest animals they usually hunted – moose, deer and boar, why they had turned to killing livestock. She had lost her mate to the humans. The wolf told him of the rouge mercenary band camping in an old, abandoned garrison on the southern coast.

He dematerialized. The wolves broke out in scattered howls, following the trail of his mist.

The garrison loomed on the edge of a cliff, its stone walls colored by the dying light of the day. He sensed no human inside.

Dettlaff frowned in disbelief. The bandits must be so convinced of their reputation they believed no one would dare walk in and lay hands on their stolen goods.

A closer inspection confirmed there was no one inside the fort. A weight fell off his chest. His family needed what could be found in this place, but he didn’t wish to kill. Pillaging old ruins or abandoned sites for loot was an effective way to find items to trade or use.

A memory overcame him. A store in Metinna, clutching a pillaged silver candelabra through a cloth when a blue, intense gaze pierced him. She surveyed him as if she understood exactly who, and what, he was. He fled; she chased after him. His heart pounded from rage and from fear of being caught; from the fear of the wish to finally be caught.

He let go of the memory, shaking it off with a shiver, and surveyed the room.

Built from granite blocks, the ruin consisted of two stories and surrounding curtain walls for fortification. A large hole gaped in the southern walls; scars from an earlier battle with siege weapon. The floors of the small rooms, smelling of damp fur and mould, were connected through a simple rope ladder. A lone rat skittered through the room.

Dettlaff smiled crookedly. Fur clothing, among them a coat of reindeer fur with red and blue details at the hems and neck, laid thrown on top of a chair. It was perfect for Regis.

He chose a long, black frock of bear fur for himself.

Finding their stash of ducats was easy. He only needed to smash the lock to a copper casket open.

Upon hearing a creaking sound, Dettlaff dematerialized and left the garrison through an arrow loop on the second floor.

 

*

 

Eigil was off guard duty the day the newcomer knocked on the door to his father’s house. His mother, Brigitte, opened. She too recognized the woman in front of her, by the way she lifted her hand to her chest in a surprised gesture.

The young woman was dressed in a hooded cloak over a black jacket and leather pants. She wore handsome, high-heeled boots uncommon for the islands.

“I hope I am in no way disturbing you.”

His mother regained her composure and remembered courtesy.

“No, no, please come in! What brings you to our house?”

She let the woman named Rennaugh in. The visitor lifted her hood from her face; his mother flinched at the sight of a scar intersecting her left cheek.

Eigil wished he had put on a better shirt on this morning. He spoke a command to his dog who wiggled her curled tail and sniffed at Rennaugh’s calves.

The visitor rummaged through her satchel and picked up a bundle of mistletoe as an offer to his mother.

A token of good fortune on Skellige, bundles of mistletoe decorated every home as a protection against bad luck. Brigitte thanked her, pleased the newcomer knew of this tradition.

“Please, sit and I’ll fetch you some kafi.”

Rennaugh smiled and thanked her.

“Are you settling in good on the taiga?” Eigil ask and motioned her to their kitchen table, “No problem with the wolves?”

She shook her head. “We are glad for Gunnar an Hindar’s help.”

“What brings you and your family to Hindarsfjall, Rennaugh?”

Brigitte came back with kafi, the local name for java, and an accompanying piece of goat’s cheese that grated in a creaking sensation against the teeth. Their guest sat on the edge of her chair and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. She wore a silver ring the shape of a snake – it struck Eigil as odd. Perhaps it was custom in her home nation – from her dialect, he guessed Cintra.

“I came here looking for more information on… on my father.”

She accepted the kafi Brigitte poured her in a ceramic mug, “His name was Didrik.”

His mother spilled a portion of the hot java on the table. Eigil’s mouth dropped.

Brigitte put the pot down, lips pursed.

“Do not remind us of that name.”

Rennaugh’s face turned pink.

“Please, tell me what he did? I beg you!”

Eigil’s mother glared at her.

“Your father was the brother of my husband Lars. There is not much we can tell you. The only thing I do know is that the elders struck your father from the saga of the ancestors. Do you call yourself Didriksdottir? You cannot, for he never existed.”

That’s why she is so familiar, Eigil thought. She had the same hair as Didrik, hay-colored, and his long, pointed nose. He remembered her mother; same height and figure, same cerulean eyes, eyes that now glistened with tears.

“I remember,” he said, and made a motion to silence his mother who opened her mouth to reproach him. “She deserves to know! She’s come all the way from the continent and she deserve answers!”

“Fine,” his mother hissed and left for the kitchen.

“Your father – Didrik,” Eigil said slowly, “he trained to become a druid. Your mother was a priestess apprentice. Both had given the oath of purity when they eloped. It was a scandal. Didrik hurt his family, greatly.”

It was her turn to sit with her mouth open.

“She never told me…” she whispered.

An awkward silence spread between them.

Eigil didn’t like seeing this woman sad, although he barely knew her. He didn’t know what to say.

“Didrik’s parents”, she breathed, “your grandparents. Where are they?”

“Dead, I’m afraid.”

“I see.”

She stood up, ready to leave. Before she did, she searched her satchel again and handed him brown, juniper-smelling pouch.

“Thank you Eigil, for your honesty. Give this to your mother. Tell her to brew a tea from it – it will help her with her arthritis.”

He accepted the gift and thanked her. That’s right; she was a herbalist. She’d noticed his mother’s problems.

He walked her to the door, wanting to say something.

“You know,” he cleared his throat, “we don’t believe in hereditary shame on Hindarsfjall. You are not…”

“I know.” She smiled, but not happily. “Good bye, Eigil.”

“Good bye Rennaugh. Eh, don’t hesitate to come back! If you want. Don’t mind mother, she’ll come around. I’m sure father would like to speak to you…”

He closed the door behind her and sighed. His dog let out a whine.

 

*

 

Growing up, Rennaugh suspected her parents’ migration from the isles had to do with shame. She didn’t want to be right. As she walked past the fence surrounding Lars’ house, the ground wobbled like someone had pulled a rug from under her feet.

With heavy heart, she directed her steps towards the blacksmith.

Gunnar’s son Eirik chauffeured her back to the cabin. The snow covered the trees in glittering softness. It was beautiful. But she didn’t take notice of nature’s rapture.

She sat in deep thought, her hand clasping the amber pendant around her neck. Eirik sent her careful glances but didn’t disturb her. She thanked him when they arrived at the cabin.

Both vampires noticed her mood when she stepped in the kitchen. Bluntly, she told them what she had learned from Eigil.

“If you wish to know more, Rennaugh, the high priestess of the temple of Freya would be a good start.”

“You’re right, Regis,” she pulled off her mittens, “I’ll go to the temple, but right now I’d like to just… process this.”

 

*

 

Shortly after, Dettlaff stepped into the annex where she prepared a washing.

“This must be painful for you.”

She leaned against the tub, grasping its edge.

“Dettlaff, I have a wish. Can I share it with you?”

He nodded and took her hand, stroking her knuckles with his thumb.

“If we have a son – may I name him Didrik? After my father?” She shook her head. “They say his name is erased from the saga of the ancestors. I can’t be Rennaugh Didriksdottir – because he does not exist.”

Her eyes flashed.

“My father was a good man. His name will not be forgotten. I know who I am – I will always be his daughter.”

“And if it is a girl?”

“Wha – what do you think?” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

He remained silent.

 _He’s still afraid of what this means_.

Remembering her trip to the blacksmith, she let go of his hand to search her satchel.

“Before I forget. I have something for you.”

She offered him the carving tool. The blacksmith had fused together the halves perfectly. On an impulse, she had asked him to brandish its handle with a small symbol of a starling.

Dettlaff stood silent, staring at the carving tool in his hand.

Laughter bubbled in her. He looked like she’d given him the Brisingamen.

How many gifts had this man ever received in his long life? The ring from Regis. And – ?

Her humor vanished. He was so generous with gifts himself.

“Thank you.” The deep timbre of his voice rattled her heart. He lifted a hand to caress the unscarred side of her face.

“You’re welcome,” she whispered.

He leaned forward and kissed her, slowly. When he broke the kiss, her breath came out short.

Had anyone told her merely a year ago, vampires could be so tender, she would have scoffed at them in disbelief.

“I should buy you gifts more often.”

He smiled, about to kiss her again, when the sound of boots crunching the snow outside reached his ears. They reentered the kitchen to see Regis open the door for a bearded man in a seal skin doublet and checkered woolen sash. He removed a furred cap from his head.

“My name is Lars Magnuson, and I’ve come to see the woman called Rennaugh,” he announced.

Rennaugh stepped forward, extending a hand.

“I am her.”

He surveyed her, his eyes sad and weighty.

“You look just like him.”

 

*

 

Lars accepted a mug of tea and a seat at their table. Dettlaff remained a bit to the side, leaning against the drawer. Regis and Rennaugh joined Lars by the table. The air of the cabin hung thick from the man’s wet doublet.

“I told him it was wrong. But by the time I found out, it was too late.” Lars’ large fist clenched around the earthenware mug.

He fixed his eyes in Rennaugh’s. “How did he die?”

“The black ones burned our village. Mother and I hid with the other women in the woods. Father was killed. I never saw his body. I was only four…”

To everyone’s surprise, the man broke out in tears. His shoulders shook from deep sobs.

“My last words to Didrik,” he rasped, “I – I told him he was an idiot.”

Rennaugh extended a hand to his. He didn’t pull it away.

“And Bergphóra?” Lars used his other fist to wipe at his face, “Is she also dead?”

“No,” she said, “she lives in Cintra with her new husband. She’s happy! I have two younger sisters…”

Neither of the vampires uttered a word.

“I’m glad to hear it. I never knew Bergphóra well… but Didrik loved her madly. She was very beautiful.”

Rennaugh’s breath hitched.

 _Tell me more, please_ …

“You lived a good life in Cintra then?” Lars asked.

“Mm-hm!” She smiled with pursed lips.

Lars frowned.

“Don’t lie to me Rennaugh. I can see from your hands you’ve had to work hard.”

She pulled her hand from his and placed it against her chest. She had always been ashamed of her hands, red like bricks and dry from washing clothes in icy streams until her nails cracked and bled. At Corvo Bianco, Marlene massaged them with ointments for moisture, but she would never have the white, downy hands of girls of noble birth.

Please don’t ask me of my scar, she thought. She didn’t wish to tell this man another lie.

Lars didn’t ask more questions. He stood up.

“I needed to see you with my own eyes,” he said, “Brigitte was upset after your visit but pay no attention to her. I apologize for her rudeness.”

He smiled a sad smile.

“There has not been a day I haven’t thought about my little brother, and what happened to him. Did you know you have our grandmother’s name?”

His words trampled her heart. Her name had a history. She’d found another piece of herself.

“Our parents never forgave Didrik. They were proud, of old tradition.”

His shoulders sank, as if out of breath.

“I need to get back. Thank you for… for…”

“Please, I’m the one in debt to you.”

Rennaugh stood up. She fought an impulse to hug the man. Instead, she followed him to the hall.

Dettlaff offered to follow Lars back to Larvik.

 

*

 

As she prepared for the night, Rennaugh closed her eyes believing she would dream of her father again. Instead, she dreamt of a young man with amber-colored eyes and blond hair fastened at his neck. He held out his hand to her with an expression of urgency.  

He was important, but the dream never told her how.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve modeled the Skellige northern draft after the [North Swedish heavy draft horse](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/North_Swedish_Horse). 
> 
> [The Fjording](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fjord_horse). 
> 
> Brigitte served Rennaugh “kaffeost” – originally a sami tradition of placing pieces of goat cheese in coffee, brewed (boiled) in traditional coffee pots.
> 
> I've named Rennaugh's extended family Lars as a tribute to Luke Skywalker's aunt Beru and uncle Owen Lars in Star Wars. 
> 
> Music inspiration for this chapter: [Running with the wolves](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lytKO_RDtUg) – AURORA (Pablo Nouvelle remix)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Scars represent memories in our flesh. Ciri wears hers. Why shouldn’t you?”

Triss pulled her jacket tight around her shoulders. Rather than conjuring another portal, she had taken the ferry to Hindarsfjall after spending two more nights with Yennefer in Trolde.

She arrived outside Larvik, where one of the townsfolk told her of the newcomers in the cabin. She preferred opening a portal rather than go by foot, but as the directions were unclear, she ended up on top of a pine tree-covered hill next to the cabin. From its chimney flowed a pillar of smoke. The distant light of Larvik twinkled further to the west. Above her, the green curtains of the northern light flew across the sky, hiding the cold light of the stars behind its billowing movements.

Triss’ fingers went numb from the cold. The crisp air rasped her lungs. She descended towards the lantern that spilled its light further down the slope, trampling knee-high in soft snow. When she reached the base of the hill, she slipped on a patch of ice. Laughing silently, she regained balance and wiped a few strands of hair from her face.

A shift in the air made the hair on her neck stand up.

“Miss Merigold?”

Triss nearly jumped out of her hide.

The vampire. He appeared from a vapor in front of her, dark and ominous, that usual scowl on his face. He wore an elegant, black fur coat over his leather apparel, his raven hair reflected the colors of the northern light. A glint of suspicion flashed in his eyes.

He doesn’t trust me, she thought, her heart slowing to a normal rhythm.  

“Please, its Triss.” She managed to smile.

He offered her his hand to avoid further slippages. His grip was surprisingly warm.

“I’ll take you to her.”

They walked the distance to the cabin in silence.

What does Rennaugh see in this man? It wasn’t the first time Triss had asked herself the question. She found Dettlaff to be tall, dark and imposing rather than tall, dark and handsome.

“How are things back at Corvo Bianco?”

Surprised by his willingness to do small talk, Triss shot him a glance. She never had the time to answer, for they arrived at the cabin. Rennaugh had seen them from the window and paced quickly towards her with arms stretched out and a wide smile on her face.

 

Well inside, Regis warmly greeted Triss. She peered around in delight.

A fire burned with a cozy crackle from a whitewashed open fireplace where aromatic bundles of mistletoe hung from strings by the sides. A pot of herbal tea warmed on top of a black iron stove. In the middle of the room, underneath the glass-paned window, stood a table with an accompanying swab sofa. Triss admired the handicraft. The room smelled nicely of clean washed floor planks.

A long, slim rug weaved from scrap rags covered the floor and different utensils, alongside a garland of garlic and other bundles of herbs, hung from hooks attacked to a rack underneath a large workbench for preparing food. A shelf supported several earthenware plates and mugs. Beside the bench stood a chest of drawers with two carved, toy horses parading on top.

The cabin struck Triss as anything she’d expected vampires would enjoy.

Surveying her friend, Triss discerned a small swell of Rennaugh’s lower abdomen.

 _It’s true_.

I’ll have to talk to Regis about recommendations for a diet, she thought as she worryingly surveyed the sharp edges of her friend’s clavicle; fatty yoghurts, nuts, salmon, legumes, dried fruits and berries…

A warm, red hue rested on Rennaugh’s chest. Triss drew in breath.

“Rennaugh, where have you found that pendant?”

Rennaugh frowned and grasped the jewellery. 

“It was my mother’s.”

“You met your mother in Cintra?”

Rennaugh shook her head. She told her how she got the necklace.

Triss wished she could offer more than a feeble sorry. She wouldn’t mind sending a fireball up the arse of Rennaugh’s ploughing, mage-hating step-father.

“The amber stone,” she said, “it’s magic. Have you noticed anything about yourself since you got it? Any new powers?

Rennaugh turned her eyes to Dettlaff, who leaned against the bench with his arms and legs crossed.

He nodded, slowly.

“Yes,” she breathed.

 

*

 

Triss stayed for a week. She and Rennaugh spoke of the pregnancy, of the prophecy, and of magic.

Yennefer was right, Triss explained, magic embodied chaos; many found only death and destruction in its uses. But magic was also the embodiment of nature, of order, and life itself. Rennaugh’s new powers proved it, Triss said.

The purpose of mages was to find balance.

Rennaugh spoke of how she pulled her strengths from darkness as well as light when using her powers. She worried about the pain from drawing too strongly from the force, and what it meant.

“It means the force fights back,” Triss explained, “it doesn’t wish to be exploited. It will bestow powers on you willingly if you let it, but it may cause de-oxygenation of the brain. Be careful.”

They strolled the road to Larvik, visible though the tracks of sleighs and hooves. The air filled with the crunching sound of boots against snow. Small crystal flakes tumbled from the clouded sky to land on branches and the soft ground.

Triss asked Rennaugh if she’d managed to draw the force from fire. Rennaugh remembered the flames roaring in the inn on Ard Skellig and blushed.

“It seems your new powers spill during circumstances of heightened emotional stress – or pleasure. I will teach you a few methods to control it, if you wish.”

“I’ve worked on a way not to let my powers erupt when I sleep – sometimes they manifest when I dream.”

“Oh?” said Triss. “Show me.”

Rennaugh shook her head.

“No, I’ve promised not to use my powers. In case…”

Triss nodded.

“I see.”

 

In Larvik, Rennaugh took Triss to the public sauna. The facility laid on a large, wooden raft floating on the pond, reachable from a pier. Inside, Rennaugh and Triss undressed in the women’s compartment.

Rennaugh told Triss of the peculiar culinary speciality of Hindarsfjall; fermented herring with potatoes, flat white bread and chive on sourcream. It smelled horribly but was considered a delicacy. Regis enjoyed it, she explained, smiling at Triss expression of disbelief.

After sweating in the sauna, heated by splashes of water on fiery stones underneath a fire, they entered the bridge to descend into the icy water of the pond. Both gasped and laughed at each other’s facial expressions. During this time of the day, only two other women bathed.

Back in the sauna, Triss took Rennaugh’s hand to examine her ring. She inhaled the smell of hot skin and warm pine wood.

“It’s beautiful. It reminds me of the legend of Jormungandr.”

“Triss,” Rennaugh whispered, “I need to ask you – my scar… could you…”

“You wish to remove it with magic?”

Rennaugh nodded.

Triss frowned. “Because of him?”

“No – it’s… Whenever I see my own reflection, I don’t see me. I can’t explain it any better.”

Triss hadn’t seen any mirrors in the cabin.

“There are spells,” she said, “that can change whole looks. One is called Glamarye – it was popular among sorceresses before the war. There is an ointment called glamour. But these have side effects. Rennaugh… scars represent memories in our flesh. Ciri wears hers. Why shouldn’t you? Honestly, once you get used to it, it isn’t that bad.”

Triss lifted the thick, red veil of her hair to reveal her chest.

Rennaugh’s lips parted. Across Triss’ skin stretched a net of scars, like white wrinkles on fine cloth.

Rennaugh lifted her hand.

Triss heart jolted. No one had touched her chest since the battle of Sodden, no one except Geralt.

Rennaugh’s fingers ghosted like soft feathers on her chest. A warmth spread on Triss’ skin. She lowered her chin and gasped.

A soft, orange light emanated from Rennaugh’s fingertips. Underneath her touch, the net of scars diminished visibly.

Rennaugh pulled her hand back as if it had been burnt.

Both peered around them, wide-eyed, to make sure no one had seen what had happened.

 

On their way back, they didn’t speak much of the healing. Triss tied it to Rennaugh’s newfound powers. Rennaugh avowed she hadn’t done it on purpose.

A light tingle still caressed Triss’ chest.

Like shape-shifting, force healing was an exceptionally difficult magic ability. Triss only knew one sorceress powerful enough to perform it.

Yennefer.

Before they reached the cabin, Rennaugh stopped by the slope of the hill. She peered up to the ridge with a smile. Triss let out a surprised sound when Rennaugh yanked her sleeve, coaxing her to climb the hill with her.

“I’ve wanted to try this since we got here,” she explained, “come!”

At the hilltop, Rennaugh pulled at a large, u-formed piece of bark fallen from a fir and sat on it. She placed her heeled boots on the front.

“Are you going to..?”

“Come Triss, join me!” Rennaugh smilingly held out her gloved hand.

Triss didn’t know what overcame her, but soon she sat behind Rennaugh and held her waist. They whooshed down the hill, keening and laughing like little girls. When they reached the slope, Rennaugh managed to steer out of the way of a large pine tree in their trajectory. Both covered in snow, their eyes watered from the wind and from laughing. They stood up to brush the snow from their breeches.

Triss flinched when Dettlaff materialized in front of them.

“Are you mad?” his dark voice rasped.

Scowling, he approached Rennaugh in near menace.

“You are pregnant! That is dangerous! What were you thinking?”

Rennaugh’s surprised look turned into playful defiance.

“Oh, don’t be a killjoy.” She whisked a patch of snow from her arm that landed on the side of his face.

The vampire blinked. Rennaugh hid her mouth behind her hands.

The air got heavier in Triss’ lungs. A smile glinted in Rennaugh’s eyes – or was it a glint of fear?

Dettlaff lifted his hand.

Eyes widening, Triss stiffened her muscles to intervene.

He grabbed a branch of the tree that hovered above Rennaugh and let a large patch of snow that perched on its needles fall onto her head.

She inhaled sharply, covered in glistening flakes.

“Hey!”

Rennaugh brushed the snow from her hair. Several flakes got stuck in her eyelashes. Her eyes glittered with laughter.

When she reached for him, he dematerialized and reappeared a few steps away.

“Not fair!” Rennaugh laughed and ran after him towards the cabin.

The vampire smiled. Triss scarcely believed her own eyes.

 

*

 

The next day, Rennaugh asked Triss about the Lodge of Sorceresses.

They strolled together, arm in arm, this time towards the sea. Frigid winds colored their cheeks pink. They passed the mountain ridges to seek shelter. 

Triss whisked the snow from a branch of a berbercane bush before answering Rennaugh’s question.

“The lodge formed because the status of magic in the world was threatened,” she said, face hard. “We – the founders of the lodge – believed in restoring it. We knew we had an important part to play in the world. And we were right. We partook in the salvation of the world from the White Frost, through helping Ciri. Magic saved us all.”

She tucked a copper strand of hair under the woollen cap on her head.

“Some however, believe it’s the role of the lodge is to be... more active in this world. Philippa believes in the foundation of an empire, ruled by magic. That is why she is determined to make sure Ciri marries Tankred. Their alliance would safeguard the status of mages in the south and in the north. Their children would carry the gene for the elder blood, and through that, the future of magic will be secured.”

“What does Ciri want?”

“That,” Triss took a hold of Rennaugh’s arm again, “is a question not enough people have asked. To many, she is a pawn. This is also true for the lodge. The elder blood, Hen Ichaer, runs in her veins. Many have tried to get to it, through coercion, persuasion, or manipulation. Nobody asked her what she wanted, ever.”

“Triss, if you love Ciri, and you knew she was a pawn to the lodge, why did you stay?”

Triss stopped. The muscles in her jaw stiffened, her eyes burned with tears.

“My former colleague, Sabrina Glevissig, explained it once, that the purpose of the lodge was to secure the future of magic, and the status of mages. The role we play in society – the trust, respect, the credibility lent to mages – faltered after Thanedd. I’ve told you of Thanedd, haven’t I?”

Rennaugh nodded.

“I agree with Sabrina. The general belief that magic is useful; no, that magic is essential, needs to be restored. Therefore, I’m still part of the lodge. It’s why I work for King Thyssen, and why I’m determined to see a school of magi in Kovir. Do you understand Rennaugh? Before Ciri ascended the throne in Nilfgaard, mages served because they chose between slavery or the scaffold. You were there during the witch hunts. You’ve seen what they’ve done to us! I have been forced to make certain compromises – some of them, I’m not proud of. But I still believe in the lodge. I will not see sorceresses burned on stakes again. Never again!”

Rennaugh stood rooted to the spot, wide-eyed at the outburst.

Triss pinched the bride of her nose with her hand and took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry Rennaugh. I believe strongly in mages rights. That’s why I rushed here when I got Yennefer’s letter. Your quest on Skellige could mean a lot for mages here. But it could also prove to make the situation worse. Do you understand?”

She grabbed Rennaughs arms and squeezed them.

“Power may also corrupt us. Why shouldn’t it? We have so much power in our hands. I worry about you, Rennaugh. I don’t want you to be alone in this.”

“I’m not.” Rennaugh managed to smile. “I don’t believe in destiny – at least I don’t believe destiny chains us. I control my life, not some prophecy of an organisation we can’t even know really existed.”

Triss let go of her grasp of the other.

“I hope you’re right.”

They continued walking in silence, only broken by the rasping caw of a crow over their heads.

Rennaugh glanced at Triss.

“Why do you think Ciri decided to become empress?”

Triss didn’t answer immediately. She gazed out at the horizon.

“Because she has a sense of responsibility. She knows she carries the fate of this world on her shoulders. I think she will accept the marriage proposal from Tankred.”

“Does she love him?”

Triss stifled a laugh. It was such an innocent thing to ask. An empress’ choice needed to be of the mind, not the heart. But perhaps, the question needed to be asked.

“I don’t think so, Rennaugh. It would be a political alliance. But I know him well. He is wise, and kind. And handsome. Sure, he was a hothead when he was younger, but he’s grown into his role as ruler since then. Maybe she’ll learn to love him, should she choose to marry him. Although…”

Triss closed her mouth. She didn’t vent her suspicion that Ciri preferred women. Not that she thought it would chock Rennaugh, after all, same-sex relationships weren’t uncommon, although marriage was still exclusive for men and women, especially among the upper classes.

She didn’t wish to discuss affairs that were none of their business.

They reached the lip of the cliff, overlooking the frigid ocean. Rennaugh pointed to the whales breaching the surface by exhaling sprays of water and slams of dark tail fins.

The time for serious discussion was over for the day.

 

*

 

During the rest of her stay, Triss became at times distant. Rennaugh asked what was wrong.

Triss sighed. And told her about Geralt and Yennefer visting Ciri in Nilfgaard.

“Do you not trust him?”

Triss didn’t meet Rennaugh’s gaze. She fidgeted with the square pendant on her chest. The sun shone through the windowpanes and hit Triss’ hair to make it shine like red gold.

Rennaugh’s heart swelled. Regis had told her how he’d used a strand of Triss’ hair to save her from the poison that nearly killed her in Kovir a year ago. 

“It’s not that,” Triss answered. “I do, but... Geralt’s and Yennefers story is the stuff of legends. Their saga is still sung in taverns and at courts. They were bound to each other.”

She picked up an empty claw from the crabs they ate, deliciously prepared with dill and garlic by Regis, and surveyed it, sighing.

“I’ve always felt like I have him on loan. That… their story is more real than ours. It’s silly, I know.”

Triss blushed, eyes glossy.

Rennaugh tried to imagine how painful it must be for Triss to still hear the songs of Geralt and his past lover. Before, whenever she imagined Dettlaff with Syanna, her insides hurt like they’ve been pierced by knives. Not anymore. Hadn’t Dettlaff met Syanna, he would never have come to Touissant, and she would never have met him.   

“Every time we were together in the past, I knew it was temporary,” Triss continued. “He always returned to Yennefer. Then, during the search for Ciri and the flight from the Wild Hunt, he… didn’t. He wished to stay with me. And the funny thing is, although we have lived together for five years, I still scarcely dare to believe it’s true.”

“Triss,” Rennaugh said softly, “You deserve happiness…”

“Do I?” Triss eyes flashed. “I stole him from her. I went behind the back of my oldest and dearest friend.”

Rennaugh gently put her hand on Triss’ arm.

“You can’t steal a person.”

 

Triss left Hindarsfjall the next day. She promised to come back for the birth of the baby, should they still be on the island the next summer.

She landed in Corvo Bianco to repack before opening a portal to the capital of Nilfgaard. The majordomo met her with a letter in his hand.

It was from the king of Kovir, summoning her to Lan Exeter in an urgent matter.

 _I guess I’m not going to Nilfgaard_. She frowned in disappointment.

Triss sat down in their room to write a letter to Geralt, to tell him they would meet later in their home in Lan Exeter.

After making sure the letter got sent by the majordomo, she got lost in contemplation of the curious family in the cabin outside Larvik.

The vampires had changed since they left Touissant.

Triss often thought of others in the form of colors. When they first met, Dettlaff appeared to her as orange to crimson, like the sky that day of the battle of Sodden. He was full of emotions, some he seemed unable to understand or control. Underneath it all, she sensed a longing to escape all that clamour of affect, to find peace.

His earlier stark colors had deepened to an attractive indigo that told her he had found some of it, at least.

Regis always appeared to her as a man of a lively green that deepened to a shade like the needles of the fir tree. Those colors had faded to a hue striking her as near grey.

The colors of someone sad, or worried.

She froze by the sound of a call on her megascope.

Philippa.

“Triss.” The first metallic resonance of the leader of the lodge of sorceresses’ voice echoed through the room. “I trust you have heard the news from Nilfgaard?”

Triss walked up the megascope. Philippa wore her usual low-cut dress with the embroidered sleeve, her hair in braids and an owl’s feather stuck behind her ear. The band she used to hide the holes where her hazel eyes had previously laid glistened in the light of an open fire.

“No, I’ve been… visiting a friend.” Triss tried not to fidget.

“The girl you saved in Kovir? The natural force user? You shouldn’t waste time on such frivolous matter.”

Triss sighed in relief at Philippa’s words.

“Triss, Cirilla has declined Tankreds marriage proposal. She’s determined to marry Cerys an Craite’s brother Hjalmar. You must persuade her it’s a mistake. An alliance with Skellige is already in her hands through her claim to the throne of Cintra. She must understand…”

“No.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Triss’ heart pounded in her chest.

“I can absolutely speak to Ciri of these matters. But if her heart belongs to Hjalmar and not Tankred, it is her right to decline him.”

“Her heart!” Huffed Philippa and grit her teeth, “She is the empress of Nilfgaard! Her heart belongs to the empire!”

Philippa leaned back, arms crossed.

“Where are your loyalties, Triss? Is it with the future of magic? Or somewhere else?”

Triss lowered her gaze.

“I will speak to Ciri.”

Philippa scrutinized her.

“Good. Report back to me immediately after.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the wonderful response to this fic! Everytime I get that e-mail saying "you've got kudos!" I do a little happy dance <3
> 
> [Fermented herring](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Surstr%C3%B6mming) is considered a delicacy in the north of Sweden, and yeah, it smells bad but tastes like strong cheese :)
> 
> [Jormungandr](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/J%C3%B6rmungandr) or Midgårdsormen.
> 
> I love [ this fan art](https://www.deviantart.com/bablar/art/Merigold-740535388) of Triss, showing her scars.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Regis, will you tell me of your ‘debt to mankind’?”

The wolves gathered around Dettlaff, tails submissively tucked between hind legs. Each of them pressed a snout, a shoulder or a head against his body. He ignored all of them, except their leader who sat next to him, accepting his hand that stroked the coarse white fur on her neck. Their breaths whisked like crystalline smoke that ascended towards the inky night sky. Stars shone bright, the full moon hung like a huge, pale disk in the sky.

He had made sure to leave no tracks in the garrison. Still, he thought, I should have known they would come after me.

Regis appeared from his invisibility. A few of the wolves snarled. A shrill yelp escaped a young male who received a sharp nip from the leader.

“They are approaching by foot. We must hurry.”

Dettlaff rose from his squatted position. All, vampires and wolves, gazed down at the cabin from the pine-covered hill.

The wolves broke out in a simultaneous howl.

 

*

 

The bandits approached the cabin slowly. They were a trio of two men and a woman, all wearing whale skin jerkins and swords hanging in scabbards fastened to their hips.

The shortest of the three, Mouse walked with a proud and arrogant posture in front of the other two, signalling he was the leader of the gang of bandits. He was handsome, beardless, with a black moustache that defined his crooked nose.

To Mouse’s right, Rolv’s statuesque body cast a long shadow from the light of the cabin. His angular, beardless face and dark, shiny hair told of his elven origin. A jagged scar intersected his face, from his forehead down to the edge of his jaw.

Left of Mouse paced Roberta, a muscular woman with tawny hair in a long pony tail whisking down her back. She cast a suspicious gaze around, a muscle in her neck twitching.

All three soared high from a shot of fisstech.

Mouse put his finger to his lips as a blonde woman exited the cabin. A single lantern hung on her arm. She disappeared into the wood shed. They approached slowly, treading carefully to dampen the creak of their steps in the snow.

As she came out from the shed, they moved to stand right before her in a way she couldn’t miss or mistake as friendly. She dropped her arms to her sides. The logs she carried clattered onto the ground, the sound muffled by the blanket of snow. Swinging back and forth from its position on her arm, the light from the lamp flickered against the white ground.

“Greetings,” Mouse smiled to the woman, “tell me, did the people of Hindarsfjall not warn you of us? We are the Antlers, the true Yarls of this island.”

“I have heard of you.”

The woman stood proud, Mouse thought. She is either foolish or something was not as it seemed. They had reconnoitred the surroundings of the cabin all day to conclude she was alone, for the time being. She wore no weapons.

Mouse was no fool. They should watch out for the men she lived with. But he didn’t worry. Two men posed little threat to them; one was elderly, both were unarmed. Perhaps they would arrive in time to see this lovely young thing pinned to the wall by his sword.

“A few weeks ago, we were robbed,” he told her. “Only newcomers would be so foolish. We’re here to teach you and your companions what it means to steal from us.”

A cry of wolves pierced the night sky.

Rolv spat by his feet.

“Look,” Roberta said in her deep voice and pointed to the woman, “look how she’s holding her hand over her crotch. She’s got a bat in the cave.”

The woman took a step backwards, but she didn’t run. Strange, Mouse thought, no screaming, no running, no begging for her life. The wench must be so scared she’s frozen.

The glint of fear in her eyes sent a lustful wave down his spine. This was going to be fun. He motioned for his companions to stay put and stepped forward.

“You know,” he said slowly to the woman, “I don’t fuck pregnant women.” He drew his short, two-sided sword from its scabbard with a shing. Her gaze followed the motion, transfixed.

“But an interruption can easily be arranged.” He lifted his gaze from her abdomen to make sure she understood what he meant.

By the way she paled, she did.

Rolv snickered, a surprisingly shrill sound for someone so large.

A whooshing sound followed by a cry drowned out all other noise. Mouse turned.

An enormous bat landed to sink its claws into Rolv’s chest, thrashing its large wings. Rolv croaked as his blood showered the snow, eyes bulging. Roberta drew her blade with a cry but didn’t have time to swing it before a large white beast jumped to rip its fangs into her throat. Her screams muffled into a snarling mouth.

The snarls and upset yips of several other creatures surrounded them.

Mouse’s stomach sank down his pants. He lifted his arm to strike at the winged monster when a black figure slashed at his side. A piercing pain erupted in his armpit, followed by a thump on the snow. Trembling, he lowered his gaze. His sword arm laid beneath him, cut by the shoulder. Blood pumped from his artery, quickly spreading its warmth on the melting snow.

He fell on his behind and croaked, snot hanging from his nose.

A man in a dark fur coat, wrinkled snout like a wolfs and long claws protruding from his fingers, hissed to the woman,

“Rennaugh, get inside.”

 

*

 

At a table in The Siren’s call, the local tavern in Lofoten, the fisherman Johar sat down at one of the tables. His dark hair and beard dripped with rain. To his opposite, his friend Ian sat with a tankard of lager in his fist.

“Have you heard?”

“I’ve heard” replied Johar, “But I didn’t see it. I was on the boat. Did you?”

“Aye,” his friend affirmed, a spark glowing in his eyes. “I was there. The man in the black coat walked up to the house of the Jarl, a bloodied sack in his hand. When the jarl came out, he let out its contents and demanded the reward.”

Ian lifted a bit from the bench underneath him, as if the memory made him clench his buttocks.

“Out tumbled the heads of the Antler’s! All three of them; Mouse, Rolv and Roberta.” Ian lowered his voice. “And I tell you Johar, the face of Roberta – like minced meat! Something had bit her right in the eyes!”

Johar’s jaw dropped.

“No!“

“As sure as daylight!” Ian took a sip of his ale and smiled through the froth stuck in his moustache.

“What did the Jarl do?”

“He nearly spat out his breakfast! He agreed to give the reward to the man. I tell you, he looks sinister that one, Dettlav what's his name. I know we should be happy to be rid of the Antler’s, but this man… he’s bad news.”

“A thousand curses upon those ploughin’ bandits,” muttered Johar. “I don’t care if the devil himself killed them. I hope the bitch suffered!”

Ian shot his friend a compassionate glance. Johar’s cousins were victims of the Antlers in a raid about six months ago.

“What happened then?”

“The Nazairian wished to buy one of the jarls’ horses, the one sired by Gunnar an Hindar’s stallion. The jarl agreed but only because this Dettlav fellow had done the island a great favour. He didn’t seem happy to comply.” Ian laughed, his brown eyes glittering, “The foreigner rode back to Larvik. He lives outside town with his wife and his brother.”

He frowned at his friend’s dour expression before slapping his hand onto the table.

“Come on Johar! This is good news! The Antler’s are gone – may they rot in hell! Let me buy you a pint so I won’t have to look on that crossed face of yours!”

It did the trick. His friend let out a snort and smiled.

 

*

 

Despite his contempt for humans, Dettlaff never enjoyed taking human lives. Before the episode in Touissant, he’d done it far less than most vampires. He never drank human blood; he disliked the intemperance of those who did. As a young vampire, his peers tried to ridicule him for it, but they soon stopped as he cared little for their opinions.

Killing humans caused him concern, he struggled to articulate why; perhaps because it threatened the fragile tranquility of living unknown among humans.  

Dettlaff remembered clinking a tankard of ale against another’s in Beauclair, a man called count de la Croix. The count had showed him decency and kindness. He remembered how the ground lurched under his feet as he read the letter that told him to kill de la Croix if he wished to save Rhenawedd, how a well of self-contempt sprang forward inside him when he killed the count.

He remembered –

Slaughtering his way through bodies in Dun Tynne, to finally get to see her, to know she was safe.

The cold midnight air of Tesham Mutna as he sank his claws into her chest.

When the bandits approached the cabin, he had wished to threaten them, to convince them to leave his family alone. Until the leader’s words reached his heightened senses.

The humans called in “in cold blood”. Fear and rage filled him to sear in his veins.

He didn’t know how something dark equally unfurled its black wings inside Rennaugh whenever she thought back on the bandit’s words. She didn’t regret their deaths. But she no longer wished to go out alone at nights. Dettlaff removed the blood from their front yard, but she still smelled it for weeks after.

Their new horse helped take her mind of the bandits. She named him Gullfaxi after his blonde mane. Taking long rides in the snowy landscape helped cleanse her mind of once again nearly getting killed and wishing to kill.

 

*

 

Regis worked to slowly turn the wood shed into his own workshop. He replaced the logs with a desktop where he placed scrolls, parchment, ink, feathers, different utensils, glass, and porcelain bottles.

He hung bundles of herbs and spices from the roof. At last, he ordered a pot-bellied stove, with tubes and wires arching in spirals.

“You’ve made yourself a bat cave”, Rennaugh joked as she visited his new workshop.

“Now you have seen me in all my forms,” he replied.

Her humour drained from his expression.

“Regis,” she said, “I never thanked you. You saved my life, again.”

He motioned with his hand in a calming gesture.

“We saw them coming from miles away. You were never in any danger.”

“Then why are you hurting?”

He winched at her brusque question but didn’t answer. Sitting by his desk, he lifted a straw of lavender from a bundle to let it whisk at his upper lip. The exquisite aroma, so typical for Touissant, dominated the air of the shed. A raven walked the roof of the former shed, the clatter of its claws sounding from above.

Rennaugh wrapped her knitted shawl tighter around her shoulders and sat on the chair next to him.

“Regis, will you tell me of your ‘debt to mankind’?”

You, who have done nothing but to be of aid to others, she wanted to add.

He smiled a melancholy smile.

“Yes, perhaps it is the right occasion for confessions.”

Regis told her of his youth. Of being foolish and high on blood. He told her of his wish to be accepted in a social circle, a wish burning stronger than the idea of self-care, of the need for blood, growing until he was nothing but want for it.

He told her of the night it all changed, where he, drunk and moronic, got caught by the villagers who mutilated, buried, and as they thought; killed him.

“It took me about half a decade to regenerate,” he concluded,” which is a long time to think about certain choices in life. When I resurfaced from my tomb, I wished to never be that person again. I had lost too much. Above all, I lost myself. So, many years later, when I met Geralt…”

“You saw a chance to atone.”

“Yes, perhaps.”

He stared out in the air, more pale than usual.

“Regis?”

“Or did I see a chance to taste blood once more but in a battle that would make me a hero?” his eyes glistened, a frown of pain on his visage. “I didn’t count on dying in Stygga castle, Rennaugh. But I knew I would get to kill.”

He rested his hand on the work table. A few of the tiny, purple flowers of the lavender fell from its straw.

A shower of regret fell inside Rennaugh.

Twice, Regis had killed for her. She had never pondered over how it affected him. He struggled with the same pain as her – no, his was probably worse, for he fought an addiction. All the times he inquired her about her health, cared for her. Had she ever asked him the same thing?

Consumed by her own pain and chock, she had failed to consider his.

Why? She thought, shame burning her visage, am I still prejudiced, although considering Regis a beloved friend? Do I think killing belong to his nature?

She put her hand on his. His familiar scent of basil and cinnamon made her heart clench.

“You did it to atone. To help! You’re a good man.”

He accepted the squeeze of her hand, but his silence cut like a knife in the air of the cramped room.

He smiled crookedly.

“Well, as it was written by the venerable Milo Vanderbeck”, he said, “ _Aegroto dum anima est, spes est_ – as long as there is life there is hope.”

He gained an urgent expression and leaned to open a drawer from where he picked up a pair of leather bands.

Rennaugh recognized the straps – they were the ones the bruxa used to bind her in the cave, the ones that caused her powers to drain. In Regis’ hands, they still shone in a strange, shifting color.

She lifted her wide eyes to Regis.

“You remember these, surely?” He asked, “I kept them. Tell me, how do they affect you now?”

She gingerly extended her hand to touch the hide. Immediately, her powers shrunk in her veins, like a cautious animal retracting from a threat.

She gasped.

“It’s remarkable!” Regis took the straps. “Please, stay here.”

He left the cabin. When he returned, he placed the leather straps on the desk. This time, their color laid flat in a dull grey. He poured a small mound of glittering sand beside the straps.

“Touch the straps again,” he implored her.

She did, and this time, nothing happened. Her powers flowed in her blood vessels, ready to jump forwards should she need it.

“What did you do?” she breathed.

“I had a hypothesis,” he pointed to the sand, “and it seems it has been validated.”

He pointed to the small mound of glittering sand on the bench. “This crystal doesn’t belong to the animal. I believe it is part of the lizards’ diet, and that’s how it enters their bodies. I simply removed it from its hide. Yennefer was right; it is not the animal that disrupts your powers.”

He rubbed his chin against the grip of his thumb and index finger.

“The remarkable thing,” he continued, “is how these crystals affect me too. They weaken me. I can’t explain it any better.”

In the light of the lantern hanging from a hook in his roof, he held up the leather straps to scrutinize them.

“My bet is that the bruxa who bound you found these on this island.”

 

*

 

Geralt of Rivia walked on a floor of marble mosaics, past ivory colonnades and pilasters. The sun had reached zenit and burned dully through the tinted glass of the ten-foot high window panes of Loc Grim palace. He reached the arched portal leading to the throne room.

A pang of emotion hit him in the guts.   

Two of the people he loved most in the world stood before him, facing a piece of parchment on a large oak table. Accompanied by the chamberlain and the former emperor, Ciri and Yennefer were surrounded by members of the elite 'Impera' brigade, standing in position along the walls of the great room. Both women dressed in delicate silk, one in black and white as always, the other in a handsome, dark blue that contrasted beautifully to her ashen hair.

Although the sight of the two women made his heart sing, he would like to travel back to the apartment in Lan Exeter soon. He longed to go home.

Had anyone told him, ten years ago, a place so far from Ciri and Yennefer’s abode would be his home, he would have tanned their hides with his sword.

Now, he couldn’t wait to wake up in his own bed. To rake his fingers through copper-red hair. To sit in his favourite armchair by the open fire, polishing his old swords and think of strategies in his next Gwent game. To not wear these stupid brocade doublets that always made him feel subtle like a peacock.

Geralt squirmed in his tight doublet. The old injure in his knee ached. I’m getting old, he thought. At least Triss would come to Nilfgaard any day now.

The familiar scent of lilac and gooseberries from Yennefer’s perfume still did funny things to his insides.

He was grateful he and Yennefer were able to socialize like two friends. He would always love her.

She’d hate me if I told her, he thought. She’d say something sarcastic in the tone of voice that drives me crazy.

Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, the lion cub of Cintra and the Empress of Nilfgaard, smiled at him. Since she had become ruler, she no longer painted her eyes black, which made her look younger than her twenty-eight years. She wouldn’t let her chamber maidens cover her scar with foundation or remove it with magic spells. It reminded her of her journey, she said. The sight of the red intersection underneath her left eye always shot an arrow of pain through him.

“So,” he said as he reached the table, “everything settled for your trip?”

Before Ciri replied, the chamberlain held out a hand to him, holding a parchment.

“There is a letter for you, sir.”

Frowning, Geralt took the letter. He opened it and swore silently.  

“What is it?” Ciri asked.

“It’s Triss. She’s been summoned to Lan Exeter.”

The two women exchanged looks.

“Well, that would come as no surprise,” Yennefer said, “surely, Tankred and Philippa will try to persuade her to change Ciri’s mind.”

“Which she won’t,” Ciri interjected and crossed her arms. “My priority is to reclaim the throne of Cintra. And I will, with Hjalmar as my consort. Without him, Cintra will remain a vassal state to Nilfgaard. But as I’ve already told you: I intend to rule from Cintra castle as much as from Nilfgaard.”

“Do you think Triss would try to persuade you to marry Tankred if she knew this is what you want?” Geralt asked.

A pink blush rose on Ciri’s cheeks.

“She is part of the lodge. And she is the king’s advisor.”

“She is not their pawn.”

Yennefer also crossed her arms and silently gazed out of the window. The stars on her pendant glistened in the sunlight.

“It doesn’t matter,” Ciri said, “we travel to Cintra tomorrow. Hjalmar will meet me there in three weeks’ time. By next Birke, I will present him as my consort to the nobility of Cintra and reclaim the throne.”

Geralt nodded. If this is what she wanted, he would support her.

“You are ready to face the discontent of the Nilfgaardian nobility?”

She smiled in a way that told Geralt she considered the dames and gents of the black sun to be the least of her problems.

“Geralt,” she said, softer now, “come with me. Stay in Cintra until the marriage. I haven’t seen you for so long.”

He loured. It meant he wouldn’t see Triss in over two months.

“Please Geralt.” She placed her hand on his arm.

He never could say no to her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Gullfaxi](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gullfaxi) means “golden mane”.
> 
> If you wish to read an exploration of Regis’ experience of being buried six feet under, I recommend [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13729758) by [Arkhaniel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arkhaniel/pseuds/Arkhaniel)!
> 
> I’m using the timeline of the books where Cirilla was born 1253 and thus is twenty-eight years in 1281. Accordingly, Rennaugh was born in 1259. 
> 
> Philippa Eilheart scheming to make sure Ciri marries Tankred Thyssen (or become his mistress) is canonical, however, I’ve been inspired by another fic when I wrote post Wild Hunt-Ciri: [Blood Ties](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10485585/chapters/23132316) by [Dordean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean). If you haven’t read this fic already, you are in for a treat!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You are Bergphóra’s daughter.”

Rennaugh glanced at Dettlaff from her position on Gullfaxi’s back. Her body rocked back and forth from the gentle pace of the large horse.

It was a typical varvinter day. The sun shone, but faintly, not yet threatening to melt the thick snow on the ground, the air cold enough for their breaths to come out in puffs of smoke. Her spouse walked beside her, the thick fur jacket over his leather coat and a black hood over his head to hide his inability to cast a shadow.

“Lars and Brigitte loved your gift.”

Dettlaff hummed.

“It’s not custom for common folk to have paintings in their home,” she continued, “they’re simple people. They were humbled.”

Rennaugh and Dettlaff travelled towards the temple of Freya. Passing Larvik, they had stopped at Lars’ to pay them a visit. They agreed to reveal her pregnancy to her extended family, who rejoiced in the news. Dettlaff accepted their congratulations and shook hands with Lars and Eigil with a constrained, but proud expression. Brigitte placed a hand on Rennaugh’s arm in a clumsy, but sincere blessing.

As was custom on the island when paying someone a visit, Rennaugh and Dettlaff brought the Lars’ a gift. Dettlaff chose a small landscape painting in oil, depicting a trireme on a foaming sea. He had crafted a frame with carved details to enclose the painting.

The Lars family stared at the gift, open-mouthed, before Lars managed to croak an astonished “Thank you” to Dettlaff.

The vampire remained silent the rest of their journey towards the temple.

“It was a wonderful thing of you to do.” Rennaugh hid a smile behind her fingers.

“I know it is not common for people of lower classes to have paintings in their homes,” he replied, “you are their real gift.”

She glanced at him, awed. Dettlaff often said things that sounded like flattery but were spoken in earnest, why it was so curiously delectable.

She loved how she’d learned more of him since they arrived on Hindarsfjall, through their interactions with people. His inability to feign appearance, simulate emotion or lie, appealed to those who appreciated honesty. In contrast, people prone to dishonesty became uncomfortable when interacting with him.

Rennaugh learned to appreciate others according to their reactions to Dettlaff’s demeanour.

Her choice of spouse meant she had, in a way, chosen to turn away from other humans. Their habitation in the cabin was a compromise of sorts – the vampires didn’t need to hide fangs or avoid mirrors, and she only had a half an hour’s ride to the nearest settlement should she wish to meet others of her kind.

The other night, she and Dettlaff had agreed to stay on Hindarsfjall until the baby was born, and as long after as she needed. The decision lifted a great weight from her shoulders.

He said her name in a new tone of voice that told her he wanted to turn to more serious matters.

“You wish to speak to this priestess of your mother. But don’t forget about the purpose of our journey. Ask her about the sorceresses.”

She opened her mouth to protest but closed it again. He was right. She did have a mission on this island, and it didn’t relate to her family.

She wasn’t sure how to introduce the matter to the High priestess, should she be granted audience. The Lars’ had told her the gates to garden stood open during the days after the cursed Morkvarg’s death and the expulsion of the wolves, although the temple remained closed to the public.

She grasped the reins, a small wrinkle between her eyebrows. Gullfaxi snorted.

At the gates to the temple grounds, Regis waited for them, his hand on the string of his satchel.

“It was a healthy boy!” he exclaimed.

Regis had been summoned to Lofoten the night before to help with a childbirth. He didn’t have to lift a finger, he explained. The mother took care of the whole labour process like she had done nothing else.

Together, they stepped the stairs to the entrance of the temple grounds.

Rennaugh lifted her eyes to gaze on the outline of the impressive structure that rose in front of the mountain side. The temple entrance loomed in front of a bailey, framed by a large arc from which the nave roof protruded, adorned with etched golden markings. On top of the vault stood a winged figure, guarding the temple grounds. The edges of the thatched roof were adorned with wooden pinnacles carved into dragon heads, typical for important Skellige edifices.

To reach the temple grounds, one had to go through the temple gardens, its centre dominated by a large ash and a round fountain. Glistening snow perched like a thick blanket on the ash’s boughs and small bullfinches and nuthatches tweeted their greetings from branches of bushes and trees. Someone had worked hard to keep the aisles free from snow and ice.

The muffled roar of the ocean reached them from the coast.

“So this is where Geralt defeated Morkvarg,” Regis said with a shudder. “There are few more revolting monsters than werewolves.”

Rennaugh’s lifted an eyebrow in surprise. Regis, a higher vampire, afraid of werewolves?

“And this is where the sorceress performed her black magic and killed the garden,” Dettlaff said.

Rennaugh stopped. A crooning melody reached her ear, resonating from the temple. She squinted against the sunlight towards the gates. From a small opening flowed a single female voice, clear like crystal.

She walked towards it.

Dettlaff let out reprimand; Rennaugh hesitated but succumbed to her curiosity. She traversed the bailey, reached the gates and gave the large wooden door a soft push; it opened wider with a creak. Slowly, she walked in and peered around to see if anyone would notice her and cast her out.

Nobody did.

The song resonated louder. The words were sung in Elder speech, a language she didn’t understand.

Rennaugh reached a stairway. Below it stood the statue of Freya in the centre of a round, multi-arched room, lit up by candles in each arc. Animal figures in marble surrounded her; a boar, two cats and a bird Rennaugh didn’t know the name of, a hawk? One of the arcs lead to another door from where the voice emanated.

She walked down the stairway, holding her breath. The statue loomed over her, tall but not imposing. She craned her neck to gaze into Freya’s marble face. The goddess’s showed a kind, soft expression underneath the shawl on her head. Her hands outstretched, palms facing upward, her composure spoke of peace. Underneath her breasts swelled a pregnant belly.

The diamond Brisingamen lay on her white chest, large like a walnut, gleaming with a strange light.

Rennaugh extended her hand to touch the foot of the statue.

“Who are you?”

Rennaugh’s heart jumped in her throat. An elderly woman appeared to her right. She was tall, at least half a head taller than Rennaugh, with grey hair under a bonnet-like headdress. She wore a green kirtle tied with an embroidered lacing at the waist.

Her eyes, brown with specks of gold, gleamed as she surveyed Rennaugh.

“Why have you entered this sacred place? Surely, you know you are trespassing.”

Rennaugh’s face burned.

“My name is Rennaugh Didriksdottir. I’m sorry if I… the gates were open…”

“The temple is closed, but we do not lock the gates. It is not needed. No one can steal the Brisingamen. It is part of this temple like the heart to the body.”

“Are you the High priestess?”

“I am. The people of Skellige call me Modron Sigrdrifa. And you are not a Skelliger, I can tell, for had you been, you would have known who I am.”

The High priestess walked closer to scrutinize Rennaugh’s face with narrowing eyes.

“You look like someone I once knew.”

Rennaugh held her breath.

A shadow fell over them. Standing on top of the stairs, Dettlaff blocked the light from the opened gates. He remained silent, but his face conveyed a question.

Rennaugh motioned to him; all was good, he could wait for her.

She turned back to the High priestess, who stood wide-eyed, staring at the vampire’s dark silhouette against the light falling through the opened gates.

The song silenced. A wind whistled through the temple entrance.

“Modron, I wish to know more about my mother. She once trained to become a priestess on this island.”

Sigrdrifa redirected her gaze to her and nodded slowly.

“You are Bergphóra’s daughter.”

 

*

 

Regis descended to the lower grounds of the garden to study a mosaic on the stone walls. He wiped the ice from the etchings with the sleeve of his jacket.

“Look at this, Dettlaff,” he said as his blood brother walked down the stairway to reach the lower grounds, “it appears to be a mural depicting the saga of Nannah the brave. Have you heard of her?”

Dettlaff crossed his arms on his chest. The leather underneath his fur coat groaned in the cold.

“Nannah was the daughter of King Gevar of Skellige, who ruled around nine hundred years ago. This is her story: The king once forgot to invite the siren queen Rineke to one of his banquets. She, vain and proud, was furious. In fact, she was so humiliated she cursed the king to live half his life as a human, half his life as a shark. When the time came for his transformation, Nannah swore to save her father by persuading Rineke to lift the curse. The siren queen promised to do so if Nannah retrieved the ring Draupner from Fulla, the goddess of secrets, who lived on a mountain enclosed by clouds.”

Regis pointed to a picture of a girl on a horse with eight legs.

“Nannah was given the horse Sleipner by Odin and ventured up to the marble city of the skies where Fulla reigned. Fulla agreed to give the ring Draupner to Nannah if she abducted Odin’s son Balder the beautiful for her. The goddess of secrets had longed loved the son of Odin.”

Regis continued to walk along the mural.

“As it turned out, Nannah and Balder fell in love, and wished to elope. But Balder knew Nannah loved her father. He willingly travelled to Fulla so she would give Draupner to Nannah. Her heart bleeding, Nannah returned with the ring to Rineke who lifted the curse from King Gevar. But alas, the goddess of secrets wasn’t happy. Fulla ached for Balder’s longing for Nannah and in compassion, she let him go. Together, Nannah and Balder revealed the secret of everlasting love; to give it freely, and to sacrifice yourself for it. When Balder died, Nannah followed him as his body burned on his ship the Hrynghorn.”

Regis took a step from the stone walls.

Dettlaff let his gaze trail along the mural in silence.

 

*

 

Rennaugh lifted her gaze to the pilasters and the arched ceiling of the temple’s inside in awe. Sigrdrifa had taken her to the very heart of the temple, a large room with a high roof arched in cupolas, supported by large pillars. Their steps echoed through the nave, enclosed by two arched aisles. The light stretched its rays through the large, varicoloured windows and illuminated a crossing transept with a few stairs that formed a circular altar. From it opened a pair of stairs to the left and the right, leading to the ambulatories, the priestesses’ quarters and the refectory, the High priestess explained.

Two large open fires burned in each side of the room. Rennaugh removed her jacket to hang it over her arm.

She wanted to ask more about her mother, when to her surprise, a young man exited from the door by the right stairs. He wore his strawberry blonde hair fastened to the back of his head, and a grey, feathered mantle on his shoulders.

Rennaugh stopped flat on the spot.

_It can’t be –_

The man smiled at the two women.

“Modron!” he descended the altar. “The repetition went well.”

He directed his amber-colored eyes at Rennaugh and froze in an expression of recognition, eyes wide.

Rennaugh stopped breathing.

She’d seen those eyes, in a dream.

“That’s wonderful, Bran.” the High priestess answered when he reached them, “May I introduce to you our visitor, Rennaugh. Her mother once trained to become a priestess in this very temple.”

His eyebrows shot in the sky.

 _I can’t know he’s seen me in a dream._ He could be surprised of hearing my mother was a priestess apprentice, Rennaugh thought, heart beating fast, or of the High priestess letting me in as a visitor in the closed temple.

Sigrdrifa chuckled. “This astonished young man is Bran. He is a druid here to help us prepare the Walpurgis concert, or Birke, as you from the continent say. He is very gifted in music.”

Rennaugh greeted the druid politely, feigning she’d never seen him before.

“Eh, do you like music?” Bran asked and let go of his previous expression of awe.

She affirmed.

“You must return for Walpurgis! After the concert, there will be a great bonfire…”

“I will, thank you,” she managed to smile.

The High priestess dismissed the young druid, who took a short bow and disappeared into one of the aisles. Rennaugh tried not to keep her gaze on him as he walked away. She pushed her braid over her shoulder. The rays of sunlight through the windows caught the gleam of her pendant.

The High priestess froze.

“Nurya,” she whispered, “now I know it’s true.”

“What?”

“The amulet. It belonged to your mother?” Sigrdrifa gained a melancholy expression. “I’m glad she gave it to you. It was a given her as gift during the initiation rite. We no longer use the amber stone as symbol of Freya worshippers.”

“Why not?”

“I decided against it. Followers of Freya should not care for worldly matter such as jewellery, but for the purity of the soul.”

Rennaugh clutched the pendant in her hand, happy her mother kept it.

“Now, daughter of the eloped one,” Sigrdrifa said, “you must leave us to let us continue our preparations. For the first time in years, I will open the temple, if only for one night.” She smiled. “But I suspect you would like to return with more questions. I’ll allow it.”

Rennaugh thanked the High priestess. Before she took a step to leave the temple, Sigrdrifa called her again.

“Did you know your name means ‘like the mountain ash’? or the rowan, as the tree is also called. Your parents surely named you after the great ash on the temple grounds.”

Rennaugh let the priestesses’ words seep into her, before she replied,

“Actually, I was my grandmother’s name.”

She bade the High priestess goodbye, and left to seek out her companions.

As she ascended the stairs to the large gates, Rennaugh rejoiced in having another piece of the broken puzzle of her history found.

On their way back, she put the heel of her palm to her forehead. She’d forgotten to ask of the Dathmori.

 

*

 

Later that night, Dettlaff sat on their bed, observing Rennaugh who put on her chemise and let down her hair. He enjoyed their custom to spend the late evenings together, until she fell asleep on his arm.

“Renn,” he said. He’d started to call her that, like the rowan tree she was named after, with the Skellige dialect where the e in her name would have been written with the local letter ö.

“I have a suggestion for a name, if we have a daughter.”

 

*

 

In the alabaster towers of Cintra castle, Geralt fumed. He seethed for more than one reason.

Firstly, he had received a letter from Dandelion, who wrote to ask about the Skellige druid order. A druid from the isles visited him in his home in Novigrad, to interrogate him of the story of the witcher and the Beast of Beauclair.

Geralt imagined the bard, flattered as always to have his songs praised, gush over the “adventure of the dreaded beast and the courageous witcher.” The druid asked Dandelion specifically of the potion used to find out about the whereabouts of the beast.

Geralt’s anger mixed with cold worry. Dandelion assured him he had purposely left Regis out of his ballad of the beast, to keep his identity and nature a secret. He also cared for the vampire and mourned his death at Stygga Castle. Still, Geralt thought, the ballad spoke of his heroic descent into the vampire’s lair to find the most potent ingredient for the potion.

What the hell did the druid want? Dandelion wrote to him with the same question, but Geralt didn’t understand. He wished Ermion was still alive.

He considered writing to Cerys and ask, but she surely had more important things on her table.

Another reason for his disorientation was Yennefer. And, in a sense, Ciri.

Ciri was often seen speaking to Emhyr; the former emperor joined them to partake in the plans for his daughter’s wedding. After his wife’s death in cancer, Emhyr lost much of his old posture. The relationship between him and Ciri thawed during the years as they tried their best to bridge the gulf between them, despite their history. Although it would take time for them to be father and daughter again, she wanted a reconciliation. Seeing them together always caused a thorn of animosity pierce Geralt’s heart. He hadn't forgot the former Emperor's vile plans for his daughter, but Geralt loved Ciri enough to never tell her.

Then there was Yennefer. To move the court from Nilfgaard to Cintra took over two weeks, and during the nights, he and Yennefer were assigned the same tent.

Ciri had something to do with that decision.

He didn’t get much sleep those nights. Yennefer undressed in front of him as if it was nothing unusual, which he admitted, until a few years ago; it wasn’t.

They quickly got into the habit of bantering. He always loved her sense of humour, dry and crisp like shale.

Though he found Triss to be more appealing, Yen was still the most beautiful woman he knew. He didn’t know what he’d done had she walked the steps to his bed.

His thoughts were interrupted by Ciri walking into the room. He shifted his weight from the leg that still sometimes hurt and took his gaze from Cintra harbour through the arched window panes.

She reached up and kissed him on the cheek.

“Ciri, I want you to stop this.”

He hated to be the cause of her look of hurt and confusion. But she played a game, and he wanted no part of it.

“What?” she asked.

“I know what you’re trying to do. And I don’t like it.”

She pursed her lips. “You were meant for each other. I don’t understand why you fight it.”

He tried to stifle his anger. At least she showed honesty. Ciri loved him and Yennefer both and considered them her parents. His choice to leave his old life behind him, and Yennefer, made her a child of divorce of sorts.

But she wasn’t a child anymore. She was the ruler of the southern world, standing in front of him in her regal, crimson brocade dress and a golden circlet in her ashen hair.

“We’ve spoken of this before – you said you understood. The magic that bound me and Yennefer is gone. It disappeared with the Djinn. Perhaps before that. I love Triss, Ciri.”

“There was so much more than magic binding you!” she exhaled, tears gleaming in her eyes.

“Of course there was!” he growled, “I loved Yennefer! I still love her! I’ll never forget what we had. But it’s over. I don’t wish to go back to that life! Do you hear me Ciri?”

She flinched. He immediately regretted his harsh tone.

He enclosed her in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled into the top of her hair. “But you must understand. All your life, people have tried to dictate whom you’re supposed to be with. You’ve always defended your right to choose. I need you to do the same thing for me.”

Ciri sighed against his chest.

“Even if you don’t wish to be with Yennefer anymore – Triss lied to you. About Yennefer, after you lost your memory. How can you trust her after that?”

“She didn’t ‘lie’, Ciri, she didn’t tell me. There’s a difference.”

He frowned. There was a lot to say about his loss of memory, and about deception.

“You’re right. Triss was wrong not to tell me about Yennefer. But we don’t love people because they are perfect or because they never make mistakes. We love them because of how they make up for their mistakes and try to do better, be better.”

He held her arms while speaking, his gaze in hers.

“When I confronted Triss, she admitted to having done me and Yennefer wrong, and tried her best to help the both of us. She avowed she owed it to me, and to her, even though she knew it would probably break her heart. And then I… ugh, Ciri, you know I’m not good with words.”

“How is it better?” She let out a shuddering breath. “With Triss?”

“It’s not ‘better’. It’s different. I’m not the man I was with Yennefer anymore. I changed. I wanted a different life.”

When he let go, she wiped her nose with the backside of her hand and nodded, smiling faintly.

He grinned. Some of her old ways persisted, no matter how hard her chambermaids struggled to learn her etiquette.

“Hey,” he said and nudged her shoulder, “do you think you’d still beat Hjalmar in salmon jump?”

The empress let out a short laugh and leaned her forehead against his chest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are officially halfway! I'm so grateful to all of you who have read this fic so far! I hope you wish to follow me for another 12 chapters.
> 
> I’ve modelled the temple of Freya with inspiration from [the Temple of Sacred Ashes](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/dragonage/images/6/66/Haven_Quest_Banner.PNG/revision/latest?cb=20150125164148) in Dragon age: Origins. 
> 
> In Nordic mythology, [Nanna](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nanna_\(Norse_deity\)) was the wife of Odin’s son Balder. I had a lot of fun toying with the story in this chapter, inspired by the saga of the couple in the Prose Edda, as well as the in the Gesta Danorum (see the first link for reference). 
> 
> Nurya is an anagram of AURYN, the necklace worn by Atreyu and Bastian in Michael Ende’s wonderful The Neverending Story.


	13. Chapter 13

Sitting by the dressing table in her and Dettlaff’s bedroom, Rennaugh surveyed her face in a small hand mirror. Eyes large, she lifted her fingers to outline her scar.

She let the mirror sink down on her lap with a ruffled sound. Three months had gone since she accidentally healed the scars on Triss’ chest.

Her first Skellige winter had gone by in the blink of an eye.

She filled her days with work. Together, she and the vampires built a fenced paddock for Gullfaxi and a small, open stable for shelter come harsh weathers. To keep him company, Rennaugh bought a goat who gave her enough milk to make the local variant of the kafi cheese she had come to love.

She and Regis distilled pine tar and used it to paint the exterior of their cabin to protect it from the harsh weathers. It coloured the wooden beams in a dark, reddish hue that Rennaugh loved. They also used the tar to treat certain skin diseases.

Rennaugh and Regis were often summoned to Larvik and Lofoten to aid with all sorts of ailments; cuts and bleedings, fevers and infections, aches and broken bones. Their presence divided the people on Hindarsfjall. Some supported and praised them, paid them in food and tools, money and furs. Others treated them with suspicion, although not with outright hostility.

At first, Rennaugh made sure to act as Regis’ assistant. After a few months, people began to accept her as a healer in her own right.

Rennaugh sewed new clothes as her old ones got tight around the waist, as well as clothes for the baby. Because of the high price on linen and other soft cloth such as cambric, she hatched a plan to cultivate flax. Gunnar an Hindar agreed to let her dike a patch of the marshlands north of the cabin for the purpose once the snow disappeared from the ground.

The decision to cultivate flax meant their stay on Hindarsfjall would be more than temporary. Her heart sang when the vampires never questioned her ambitions.

Rennaugh continued to visit the temple. She spoke to Sigrdrifa about her mother. The High priestess couldn’t give her much information; considered kind and gifted in singing, her mother had kept a low profile. When she eloped with Rennaugh’s father, they surprised the priestesses, the druids and their families alike. The pair had succeeded in keeping their rapport a secret.

Unfortunately, Sigrdrifa knew nothing about Bergphóra’s family. Rennaugh still drank every drop of the High priestess’ words like they were sweet wine.

Soon, the High priestess spoke of the history of the Cult of Freya on the islands, the sagas and the legends surrounding the gods. They spoke of the problems facing the island after the garden died. Rennaugh cherished their conversations.

Bran returned in February to have rehearsals with the priestesses. He gave Rennaugh certain glances, as if hesitating to approach her. Once, he took a few steps towards her, but one of the priestesses stopped him, wishing to speak to him. Rennaugh didn’t dare to approach him, afraid of what her dreams might mean.

Rennaugh secretly wished to join the priestesses on the day of Walpurgis and the great concert, when the gates to the temple would open to the people of Hindarsfjall. She especially enjoyed the epos of Freya and Svipdag and envied the beautiful lead singer Elsinore.

On her third visit to the temple, she asked of the rumours of an ancient sisterhood of sorceresses on the island. The high priestess claimed awareness of such a history, but avowed the legend had little grounding. A lot of fantasies and fairy tales surrounded the priestesses of Freya on Hindarsfjall, she chuckled.

“You do know we have magic abilities? Yes,” she confirmed to Rennaugh, “but unlike sorceresses, our use of the force is given us by the goddess, in prayer and meditation. In hypnosis, for some. We use it for gaining foresight. The druids use the force in the exact same way.”

Ever since realizing she was pregnant, Rennaugh’s ambition to find out more about the Dathmori faded. She tried to not think of the prophecy, she didn’t want part of it. She wished to savour this extraordinary life with her family, a life that allowed the pretension of being normal. She resented the prophecy for pulling the rug under her autonomy and her wish to exert power over her own life. She’d left Touissant chasing a legend, but after Yennefer told her of the prophecy, the legend chased her; grasped her by the neck with its fingers.

She discarded the books on magic from Yennefer and intensified her studies in medicine and alchemy.

Dettlaff spent much time in the workshop he built in the annex, experimenting with crafting furniture. He built a bed from birch tree and painted motifs from Rennaugh’s favourite fairy tale Nivellen on its frame. One day, Gunnar an Hindar visited Regis to get a remedy for his gastritis, when he noticed the works of Dettlaff through the window panes of the annex. Impressed, he commissioned a bedframe to his daughter who was about to marry. Soon, Dettlaff received more commissions for furniture from people as far away as Undvik.

With the money he made, Dettlaff ordered colors; sepia from the squids around the coast of Nazair, tempera and gouache from Touissant, pencils and brushes made from Kovirian sable. He ordered a batch of the tangerine and cedar soap Rennaugh loved, as well as Sepremento wine from Touissant to Regis.

Rennaugh smiled at the memory of Regis’ fanged grin as he opened the casket of wine bottles. She lifted the mirror to her face again and let forth a surge of light through her fingers.

She dipped them to her scar, but her smile died from her lips as she met her eyes in the reflection of the mirror. She dropped her hand to the desk. Her powers diminished from her palm with a low purr.

 

*

 

Tankred Thyssen, king of Kovir, Poviss, Narok, Velhad and Talgar, blushed. Triss had never seen his face in such a crimson tone before. But the color on his cheeks didn’t rise from bashfulness.

The king mourned. A wave of compassion hit Triss. _He’s already in love with her, and she has turned him down_. Ciri always had this effect on people, she thought, like magic.

He stepped out of her room in the palace of Ensenada where she performed her magic advisory duties to the crown, and where she kept her megascope, the device the king used to converse with the Empress of Nilfgaard.

“She wishes to speak to you.” His voice strained.  

She nodded and placed a consoling hand on the ermine mantle that covered the king’s broad shoulders before walking into her room.

“Ciri?”

Triss caught the gleam of the chain across Ciri’s chest before her features appeared in the megascope. It held the symbol of Nilfgaard; a yellow sun on an obsidian background.

“Triss.”

The Empress appeared in all her splendour. Triss’ heart cramped at the sight of Ciri’s delicate, green eyes. She wore a moss-green, plush dress with a white filigree collar and a silver circlet that melted into her ashen hair.

She resents me, Triss thought as she caught the neutral expression in Ciri’s face. A spike of sorrow rasped her heart.

Behind Ciri, Yennefers shiny raven locks appeared. Triss inhaled deeply.

“Ciri, there are those who wish me to convey certain messages to you. But I won’t.”

Ciri frowned.

“No?”

“No. I want to congratulate you and wish you all the best.”

Triss smiled at how the small wrinkle between Ciri’s eyebrows disappeared.

“Are you happy?” she continued.

A smile glinted in Ciri’s eyes, but she didn’t answer.

“We can be pretty sure _he_ is,” Yennefer chimed in from the background, “Hjalmar’s been head over heels for her since before he could grow a beard.”

Triss stifled a chuckle.

“Triss,” Ciri said, “the king and I have spoken of the relation between our nations. We are friends and will secure all beneficial exchange and trade between us although our bond will not be secured through marriage.”

Triss nodded. Ciri acted like a true regent.

“I’ve sent invitations to the wedding to all members of the lodge. Philippa hasn’t answered yet, but Kiera, Francesca and Ida will come.”

A hot rush of blood coursed through Triss to settle on her cheeks. Oh.

“I see. I haven’t…”

“I know,” Ciri interrupted her, “I wanted to invite you in person. Will you be a guest at my wedding, Triss?”

Her heart sang in relief.

“Of course I will. It would be my honour.”

 

*

 

All of Skellige rejoiced in the coming marriage of the Empress and the Queen’s brother. The royal wedding brought a sense of hope. 

Regis came one day from Larvik with a letter in his hand. On its front glistened the golden sigil of a sun on a black circle as well as the red and black symbol of clan an Craite with the three long ships. He opened the envelope to reveal an invitation to the royal wedding.

“That’s wonderful!” Rennaugh breathed.

“Yes,” he replied, “and most unexpected.”

“Regis,” she shook her head softly and accepted a cup of tea from his hands, “you helped save her life. You are one of her foster father’s closest friends. Of course the Empress wishes you to be her guest.”

He did the face again that told her he would have blushed if he could.

Dettlaff let out a puff of air.

“Large crowds of humans are normally stressful for us, but Regis is not like any other vampire. He fits into a crowd of aristocracy like a fish in water.”

Regis huffed, feigning indifference, but a twitch played in the corners of his mouth.  

“The wedding is on the first of May. Technically, I could attend the Walpurgis concert the night before and immediately travel to Cintra after. I’ve been looking forward to see the temple of Freya from the inside.”

A week later, they received an invitation to the wedding between Sigvard and Frieda, but as the date coincided with Rennaugh’s planned childbirth, they had to decline. Dettlaff sent a trinket as a wedding gift; a ladybug brooch, from infused red glass and black crystal dots.

 

*

 

As her pregnancy progressed, Rennaugh’s strengths returned in renewed vigor. She took long walks, worked hard, slept well.

She once placed her hand against a birch tree, and immediately, its leaves sprouted. With a gasp, she lifted her hand from the trunk, not sure how to interpret what happened. She held up her pendant to scrutinize the fiery tendril in its amber heart.

The winds whispered in her ears, the swallows chanted to her as they flew above, the crows cawed of things they observed. She discerned nature’s murmur.

Every time she left the house, the shrill cry of a falcon followed her.

A certain rapture sometimes overcame her, like sublime showers of bliss. The feeling reminded her of sinking into a warm bath after a day of toil. From time to time, she would embrace both vampires for no other reason than her need to outwardly express the sensuous warmth rolling within her.

“The body is intelligent,” Regis mused, “it compensates for the physical toil of pregnancy by rewarding the mother with rushes of benign hormones…” He grew silent from another of her embraces.

Dettlaff let out a short puff of laughter at the older vampire’s loss of his normally so unassailable dignity.

“It’s like having a cat in the house”, he remarked wryly.

Rennaugh huffed at Dettlaff’s teasing and whacked him on the arm. He was right though, she admitted; like a cat, she rubbed her body against her family members to coax them into petting her.

At nights, Dettlaff nestled her back against his chest and placed kisses to her neck. She steered him inside her and got lost in their gentle, rocking rhythm until she felt light-headed.

One night, he softly grasped her throat and asked though heavy breath, “Renn, can I…”

“Yes,” she panted, not caring what he wished to do, as long as he did it.

He placed his mouth at the crook of her neck and bit down without drawing blood, his hand trailing down to lock her into a tight embrace. The sweet tinge of pain sent a stream of liquid heat through her. The act made her feel cared for; chosen, cherished.

During one of their walks through the forest, he pressed her against a tall pine and got onto his knees, unhooked her undergarments from her hips and threw one of her legs on his shoulder to taste her. After the convulsions left her body, both stared at the ground where tiny green plants and anemones sprouted.

One day in early March, two actual cats appeared at their door. Black like the midnight sky, they sat on the bench outside their house, licking paws and squinting in the way cats do when they are content. It didn’t take long until they moved inside. Rennaugh quickly grew fond of the animals and named them Hogni and Tovni. During nights, Dettlaff found her beside the fireplace reading, one cat straddled on her lap, the other on her shoulders. Their combined purring reverberated like a bee swarm.

The cats made Dettlaff uneasy at first. The feeling wasn’t mutual. Hogni and Tovni rubbed their furs against his calves like chickens to a hen. 

When April came, the fields of the taiga laid bare from snow, the last years grass flat and yellow against the ground like dull gold. The snowdrops appeared, their white petals nodding in the wind. The first brimstone fluttered on crocuses that formed veritable mats of purple, yellow and white on the ground. Spiders skittered around dead leaves and budding flowers, their nets glittering in the morning dew. Swallows flew high to catch newly awakened flies.

By the lake, cranes gathered to dance, their trumpeting reverberating all the way to the cabin. Pixies danced in the fog to the serenades of frogs. The air around the lake filled with the smell of sweet gale.

Rennaugh took walks, often around the hill and towards the lake, followed the trill of the curlew, continuing across the meadows to reach the sea. Gullfaxi followed her like a huge, friendly dog. She listened to the lowing’s of the whales, although she didn’t understand how it reached her ears. Water sprites and drowners leapt in the shallow waters, and she made sure to keep a distance.

Rennaugh visualised her sisters on the other side of the sea, what life they lived, if they were happy. She had so many questions to ask her mother. She’d sent several letters to Clara in hope of getting an answer from them, but in vain.

Dettlaff didn’t like her walking out on her own. He often told her.

One day, she took a different route on her usual stroll and directed her steps to the copse near the lake. She brought her satchel to harvest newly sprouted stinging nettle, a plant delicious in soup and with anti-inflammatory qualities. Covered in moss, heather, lichen and blueberry plants, the ground around the tall firs and pines of scented of fresh herbs. The knock of a woodpecker echoed between the firs.

Several flowers sprouted on the forest floor; lady’s bedstraw, mantle flowers, cranesbill, wild chervil and daisies. Rennaugh smiled at the white bells of her favourites, the lilies of the valley. She nibbled on delicate, lively green spruce shoots while Gullfaxi contently grazed fresh grass by the copse outline, whisking flies with his tail.

Picking the delicate plants, the dry sound of feet on fallen leaves reached her ears. Rennaugh froze. The realization something watched her crept like an icy drop of water down her spine. She raised her back to see a creature standing in front of her. It’s lithe, tall body resembled a man’s, with tree-like limbs in sleek branches sticking out from its shoulders and a tattered cloth fastened around its hips. From the bony surface of its deer-shaped skull rose long, elk horns. Its eye sockets lay empty, still the creature scrutinized her.

It approached slowly, limbs groaning like tight ropes. A smell of sour wood and wet fur rose from its body. Rennaugh stood paralyzed. She scarcely dared to breathe.

The creature extended one of its slender, branch-like fingers to her protruding belly.

Gullfaxi whinnied in fear.

Rennaugh broke from the reach of the creature and ran to the horse. Grabbing his mane, she heaved onto his back. The movement shot a pain through her abdomen. Gullfaxi broke out in a break-neck gallop; Rennaugh held on to his thick mane for dear life.

The horse ran all the way back to the cabin. When they arrived, both bathed in sweat.

Dettlaff reprimanded Rennaugh with a voice like stone. He forbade her to wander alone in the forest again. She burned with shame, like a grudging child in front of her parent.

When Regis returned from a visit to the shop in Larvik, he explained the creatures name: Leshen, believed to be a guardian of the forest. People seldom encountered one and lived to tell.

“It carefully approached you?” he asked, astounded. They sat in the kitchen. Rennaugh had taken a bath to calm down, her hair flowed damp on her shoulders.

“Yes. It reached out to touch me, but I don’t think it intended to hurt –”

Both jumped from their chairs as Dettlaff rose and slammed his knuckles into the table, breaking it in several pieces. Splinters flew around his strained face, a vein bulged in his neck.

The cats ran away so fast their paws wrinkled the mat to a bundle. Rennaugh instinctively held up her hands. A piece of the table painfully hit her arm.

She stood up, nostrils flaring.

Dettlaff stared at her with eyes wide.

“I – I’m sorry…”

She walked to their bedroom and slammed the door behind her.

Regis nudged his head towards the bedroom. Dettlaff took a few shaky steps.

Rennaugh fumed. But underneath her anger, another sentiment stretched out its cold tendrils. Dettlaff had a passionate temper, fragile like glass. She’d always understood those feelings, never been afraid of his temper. He sometimes acted out his fears as aggression, but never in violence. He cared for her and feared for her safety, yes, but she needed her freedom. She didn’t wish to be monitored or controlled.

She imagined the fear of a child in front of such affective outburst. She didn’t want to have to protect their baby from its own father.

Dettlaff gently opened the door and stepped in, closing it behind him.

“Renn…”

“Not long ago,” she rasped, “you told me you didn’t wish to repeat mistakes. Well, you may start any time now.” The muscles in her jaw clenched.

He sat down on their bed, his head in his large hands. His broad shoulders heaved and sank. The seconds stretched out, fragile like spider’s web.

He raked his hand through his hair.

“Rhena - Syanna,” he said, voice strained, “she disappeared. One day, without a trace. I searched for her everywhere. If anything happens to you…”

Regret swept over her in a cold wave. She uncrossed her arms from her chest and walked closer.

“I’ve been reckless,” she whispered, “you’re right. I’ll be more careful. Dettlaff… I know what happened to you was cruel and painful. But it doesn’t mean you can, that you...”

“It doesn’t mean I can hurt you.”

He lifted his head and reached out a hand. She took it and climbed onto his lap, eyes closed to the words of remorse he whispered into the crook of her neck.

She cupped his face with her hands and kissed him, carefully at first, with fervour at last, until the ache inside slowly subdued and her face burned from the rasp of his jaw.

 

*

 

Rennaugh carried their linen out in the sunshine, like her mother always did during the first days of spring. Sparrows and magpies perched on the bench outside the house, skilfully flying to avoid the claws of the playful Hogni and Tovni. The wind blew a clean scent from the ocean.

Her swelling had grown enough to be impossible to conceal; she hadn’t worn her usual breeches since a few weeks back.

A quick, fluttery sensation erupted in her lower abdomen, like a tiny fish swimming inside her. The small, but clearly discernible movement sent a flash of tenderness through her. She nudged back a small greeting through her mind.

As if recognizing her, the fluttering came back. She concentrated on discerning any subsequent movements, but the small life in her nestled back into its usual resting existence.

A pang of relief coursed through her. Pregnancies were seldom acknowledged before the first movements of the baby, called the quickening. The little life inside her existed in a new, tangible way.

She called his name.

He was in the annex. Hearing her call, he came to stand beside her. She took his hand and placed it on her protruding belly.

Nothing happened.

About to retract his hand, the baby fluttered inside its confinement again.

“Did you feel it?” she whispered.

“Yes,” he acknowledged.

Dettlaff swallowed. And left.

He stayed in his workshop for two days and two nights. Rennaugh paced back and forth in the kitchen, unable to concentrate on anything but her will to barge in to the annex and demand that he spoke to her. Since the kick of the baby, everything gained contour. Her pregnancy felt real in a way she hadn’t dared to let it be before.

She wanted to share these thoughts with him, but he closed doors.

On the night of the second day after the quickening, she opened the door to the workshop. Her fingers played with her pendant, hand trembling.

She tried to ignore the pounding of her heart. She wished to speak to him, to know his thoughts. He wouldn’t hide from this, from her.

She stopped mid-step. In the light of several tallow candles, Dettlaff used his spoon-like tool on the short side of a cradle. Carved from dark wood, probably jacaranda; the tree with lilac flowers growing beyond the Blue mountains, the sight of its contours cramped at Rennaugh’s heart.

In the cradle laid a white, stuffed toy rabbit.

She didn’t need his words to know how he felt.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The legend of the Dathmori is not abandoned, I promise! In the next chapter, the trio will find out more about the sisterhood. 
> 
> I imagine they built a kind of fence we call gärsgård in Sweden, which looks [like this](https://namesonboats.tumblr.com/post/175911394190/g%C3%A4rsg%C3%A5rd).
> 
> The production of [tar](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tar) has an interesting history in Scandinavia.
> 
> Rennaugh acting (clingy) cuddly because of her pregnancy is inspired by the protagonist of one my absolute favourite novels, Oskuldens minut (The minute of innocence) by Swedish author [Sara Lidman](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sara_Lidman). It is from her novels I’ve taken some of the names in this fic, such as Rönnog and Didrik, as a tribute to her writing!
> 
> Have you ever heard the [ magical trill of the curlew](https://www.xn--fgelsng-exae.se/storspov/)? 
> 
> [The quickening](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quickening) was a legitimate term to determine when the life of a fetus began. I hesitated to use it because of the risk of it being interpreted as a statement on abortion. It is not (I am 100% pro-choice).


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “While you indulged in the wonderful concert, I took the opportunity to scout the premise. And I found something.”

On a late April day, Dettlaff opened the door into the kitchen of their cabin. Rennaugh stood by the workbench, crooning a song while assorting bundles of herbs according to color.

From behind, her body didn’t seem to have changed much. As she slightly turned, her protruding belly became visible.

The sharp rays of the sun shone through the windowpanes to illuminate spots of dust flying in the air. The light lit up her dress, white with embroidered details at the cuffs and shoulders, and made the strands of hair escaping the messy bun on top of her head resemble a blonde cloud. He liked her hair like that, revealing her slender neck.

He found her beautiful like this, heavy with his child. He enjoyed how it marked her as his. She’d chosen _him_ , the sign so visible on her.

He'd never dared to dream of this life. For years, he lived in near constant agitation; rage, fear, anxiety. This, the state he’d been in the last months – the humans called it harmony.

The irony in being so close to a human, when for years, he wished for nothing but to be far from men, didn’t escape him.

He enjoyed everything human about her. She’d told him she found it uncomfortable to sleep on her back as the baby got bigger, but she didn’t know that whenever she did, she let out occasional snoring sounds. He didn’t have the heart to tell her – it would embarrass her, like it embarrassed her when she struggled to hide her troubles with constipation in the beginning of the pregnancy, or the way she still turned the unscarred side of her face to people they met.

Everything she found to be bodily flaws grounded him in a feeling of being part of something real. Reality wasn’t perfect; it was better. He never experienced such sentiments with Syanna; he’d placed her on a pedestal, admiring her perfection, never able to live up to her.

His lips parted in an exhale. What possibility did he give Syanna to treat him as an equal when he constantly placed her above himself?

What ground for making something real?

His heart ached. To not repeat mistakes.

He redirected his attention to his mate. He wanted to hold her and whisper tender words into her ear. _Puiva mlach._

Instead, he gave in to an impulse to do something he never would have done with Syanna. He walked up to Rennaugh, placed his hand on her behind, and pinched it – not hard, but enough to elicit a surprised yelp and a mortified "Hey!" as the bundle of herbs in her hands tumbled onto the work bench. 

He caught her in his arms and bent his face to where her shoulder met her neck, sensing her smile. She placed her arms on his and whispered, “Oaf.”

Being with her had taught him how words normally uttered as offences could be declarations of affection if spoken tenderly. He loved the affectionate sides of her, how she craved touch for touch’s sake. Hopefully, she would continue to act as fondly as she had these last months also after the baby was born.

A blessed warmth rolled through him as he stroked her swelling and inhaled the smell of tangerine and cedar. He lifted his face to place a soft kiss on her scarred cheek. She tensed, but a small, satisfied sigh escaped her lips.

His gaze rested on her neckline to trace the blue veins underneath the skin on her breasts. Recently, a vertical, dark stripe had appeared to cross her protruding belly. He wanted to touch all these new markings, to coax her into making those little sounds he loved.

He lifted his hands to gently cup her breasts over the lacings of her dress. Immediately, her energies shifted, noticeable in her inhale as her lips parted. He grazed her nipples with his thumbs and she let out a near silent moan that shot a blast of heat right to his groin. 

Blood singing in his ears, he gingerly nudged her forward and let a hand slide along her back. Rewarded by the sound of her breath hitching, he continued the motion to curve her behind. Her knuckles whitened as her hands grasped the edge of the desk.

The sound of Regis’ steps approaching the cabin reached Dettlaff’s ears. He reluctantly let go of her. She adjusted her dress, lips red and face rosy.

“Rennaugh,” Regis announced as soon as he stepped into the room, “there’s a letter for you.”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and walked up to grab the piece of parchment. A mix of worry and excitement lit up in her face as she read.

“It’s the priestess, Elsinore” she said, “she’s sick. A throat infection. They want me to go to the temple, to help cure her. And they want me to – oh!”

Dettlaff folded his arms on his chest.

“It’s not safe. Send Regis.”

“No, this – it’s important.”

Regis lifted an eyebrow.

She cast them a wide smile. “Trust me. It’s a surprise.”

She ran up to the desk and gathered the assorted herbs in her satchel, threw her jacket and cloak on her shoulder, and went out to fasten their carriage to Gullfaxi.

Dettlaff frowned, but didn’t stop her.

“You needn’t worry about her,” Regis said as the door closed behind her and reached for a bread bun on the kitchen counter. “Magic wielders tend to be resistant to infections, not unlike us.” He smiled at the face Dettlaff made. “I guess you can’t help but worry when you care for someone.”

Dettlaff turned an inquisitive gaze to Regis. His blood brother held something back. Dettlaff hadn’t asked; he wished for Regis to ease his heart when he deemed it best.

He folded his arms on his chest as a sign Regis could speak.

Regis sat down by their new kitchen table and tore the bun in two pieces.

“I’m glad to see you have reached some of peace of mind since we arrived on Hindarsfjall, Dettlaff. You seem content. Harmonious, even.”

Although Regis spoke of being happy, his expression conveyed the opposite.

“It still strikes me as remarkable. A human and a vampire, procreating… I think a lot about how this can be. What do you think, Dettlaff?”

Dettlaff didn’t answer. He’d stopped caring about how. He cared for the child that it grew in her, it was all that mattered.

“Tell me;” Regis continued, twirling the half-broken bread in his large hand, “is it something you ever imagined for yourself? Becoming a father?”

“No,” Dettlaff answered, “but now that it is happening, then yes; I am content. At least as content any of our kind can be in this world. What about you, Regis? We are the same age. Do you ever see yourself having children?”

Regis shifted on his chair and took a bite of the bun.

“Perhaps once, I might have” he answered and swallowed, “but that was a long time ago. Now, no.” He lifted an amused eyebrow. “Besides, I am at least two decades older than you.”

Dettlaff leaned against the chest of drawers, frowning. Regis usually never withheld things from him.

“Regis, I know you wish to tell me something. What is it?”

Regis avoided his gaze. A knot appeared between his eyebrows as he placed the cursed bun on the table.

“I still haven’t found any trace of vampires on the island. It is frustrating. I know –“

“That’s not it, Regis. Tell me.”

Regis lips parted in surprise. He closed them again and swallowed.

“I’m jealous, Dettlaff.” His shoulders slanted. “And afraid. Afraid you and Rennaugh might see my presence as interfering, now that you are about to have your child. I know I interrupted something before I gave her the letter. A wagon needs only two wheels, not three.”

Dettlaff frowned. He’d always sensed Regis’ moods and thoughts, to the verge of his blood brother becoming as familiar to him as himself. These words came as a surprise. As their immortality placed little limits on what they could possess, vampires seldom expressed jealousy.

His heart sunk in his chest.

He walked to the table and sat down.

Dettlaff remembered those years he’d stayed with Regis after finding his melted form in the remains of Stygga castle. Letting his own blood saved Regis, but also caused him painful cramps and vertigo as the regeneration of his insides retook form. One night, Regis tossed and turned in the bed in Metinna where Dettlaff had taken him, crying out in anguish. Several of his limbs were still unregenerated. Dettlaff didn’t know what to do. Regis howled as if from pain of the soul as much as the body, and the sound raked at Dettlaff’s insides. He lay down beside the other vampire and embraced his broken body, held him until the convulsions and shaking subdued, and he fell asleep. Merely a few weeks later, he met Syanna for the first time.

“You never have to be afraid of not being part of this, lautni. This, everything happening in this home; it is yours, too.”

Regis’ Adam’s apple bobbed.

“I don't want you to stay because you feel obligated, Regis.” Dettlaff’s voice resonated deep from emotion. “Because you think you owe me, after Stygga. I want you to stay because we are family.”

Regis nodded, his eyes glossy.

They embraced. Dettlaff inhaled Regis’ familiar spicy smell. The coarse hair of his sideburns tickled his neck.

They didn’t need more words.

 

*

 

Two days later, Regis and Dettlaff avoided the crowd streaming into the temple grounds to witness the Walpurgis concert by entering among the last attendants.

Dettlaff lifted his eyes to the enormous arcs stretching over his head to form large cupolas as they got inside the temple. The murmur from the crowd and the lifted gazes of the Skelligers mirrored his amazement.

Anticipation hung in the air. Parent hushed their children, couples whispered instead of talking.

Behind the semi-circled altar stretched a large pillar to support the roof. The priestesses walked down the twin stairs to stand in front of the altar and face the crowd. All wore shining white kirtles and laurels of small, white saxifragas in their hair.

To Dettlaff’s surprise, Rennaugh stood among the priestesses. Her locks were coaxed into a fishbone braid, but as per usual, several sun-bleached strands came loose near her temples.

Dettlaff’s heart ached by the sight of the swell under the girdle of her robe. Some of the spectators gasped and exchanged uncomfortable glances. A few muttered in discontent. Others blinked in surprise.

From the side, facing the priestesses, stood a young man with blonde hair and a white shirt. He carried an instrument that reminded Dettlaff of a lute, only bigger.

The young man strummed his instrument. A priestess gently drummed on copper basins, another picked up the tune on a flute. Together, the properties of their instruments resonated through the hall, enhanced by the walls of the spacious room.

A young priestess with white-blonde hair stepped forward. Shorter than average, with a generous bosom and wide hips under her robe, she smiled at the audience. Elsinore, Dettlaff thought. Rennaugh had cured her infection.

With a nod, the young druid motioned to her to begin. She waited for the right note, opened her mouth, and sang. The choir behind her accompanied with a low hum.

The priestess sang the story of Freya and the human Svipdag, who claimed to love the goddess above all men, seeking her in her hall, Sessrúmnir, to woo her. At first, his courtship merely brushed the goddess’ mind, like the buzz of a fly. But his demeanour and beauty made her take notice. She allowed him to exist in her presence, an honour for a mere human.

Svipdag’s relentless courtship struck a cord inside the goddess. Freya admitted she longed for love, for touch, to be something more than a deity, aloof and ungrounded. She let him in, took on human form, and fell in love with him; fascinated and entertained at first, with the passion and heat of the sun at last.

The choir supported the lead singer in the chorus. As the priestesses sang of the rapport between the goddess and the human, of their passionate meetings, the beaming eyes of the young druid fell on the lead singer.

The crowd stood still, listening intensely. A man placed an arm around his wife.

An instrumental passage followed where the priestesses hummed, until the song started anew, but in a different tone. The chant changed to resemble a dirge.

The priestess sang of the goddess’s chagrin as Svipdag one day vanished. Worryingly, Freya searched for him among the humans, called his name, caught his scent but never found him. She cried, and the river of her tears broke the land in two, separating the islands of An Skellig and Ard Skellig.

Some in the crowd used kerchiefs to wipe at their eyes.

A new tone set in the music, harder and darker. Elsinore closed her eyes as she sung the next verses.

Freya found out Svipdag had fooled her, feigning his love to steal the Brisingamen. He cowardly set sails to the continent to escape the goddess’ wrath.

The song fit the singer’s voice, Dettlaff thought. She had a strong vocal, clear and powerful. The other priestesses supported her beautifully.

Freyas burned with wrath. She cursed the lands and made them barren. In her ire, she flooded the birth village of Svipdag, killing his wife and his children, along with most of the villagers. She raised the mountains resting on the ocean floor to find him. She threatened to rip his treacherous hide from his body.

When she found him, her heart bled. She granted him a swift death before reclaiming her pendant.

Eyes still closed, Elsinore’s visage strained from the emotion she conveyed in the song.

Chills wandered down Dettlaff’s arms. He forgot to breathe.

The violent emotions of the tune strung out by another instrumental pause.

A softer vibration of the song vibrated the air. The priestesses sang of Freya’s chagrin and disbelief. She, a goddess; fooled and crushed by the betrayal of a mere mortal. Elsinore sang of Freys’ sadness as she overcame her hate, regretting the havoc she’d caused.

Freya wished to atone. She promised the people of Skellige her daughter, who would protect them and love them as she left for Asgard to reign over the Valkyria.

As the song faded, a moments silence stilled the atmosphere in the hall. The crowd broke out in an enthusiastic applause.

The young man who led the priestesses through the concert exchanged a delighted eye cast with the lead singer, who proudly beamed back at him. Rennaugh smiled and took the hands of the priestesses beside her.

She is at home, Dettlaff thought, a glint of worry in his heart.

He turned his head in surprise as Regis placed a hand on his shoulder and motioned in silence to come with him. Finding a spot in the corner of the hall where they would not be overheard, Regis spoke lowly.

“While you indulged in the wonderful concert, I took the opportunity to scout the premise. And I found something.”

 

*

 

Rennaugh searched for her family members in the hall. She tried to ignore some of the stern looks shot at her from parts of the crowd.

Sigrdrifa appeared and took her by the arm.

“You did well,” she said as she gently pushed Rennaugh from the crowd. “Not all are ready to accept you, but give them time.”

She patted her belly in a reassuring gesture.

“Rennaugh, I hope you will continue to visit the temple after your child is born. I want you to train as a priestess.”

Rennaugh’s mind screeched to a halt.

“But – that’s impossible?”

“We will speak of it later.” The High priestess smiled. “Now, go to your family. They’re surely eager to congratulate you on your performance.”

Sigrdrifa nodded at Dettlaff and Regis, squeezed Rennaugh’s arm, and left.

Rennaugh hid her confusion, as well as the spark of hope from the High priestesses’ words, in a corner of her mind to take in later. She continued towards the vampires. By the looks on their faces, something had happened.

“Rennaugh,” Regis said when she approached them, “I need to show you something. Both of you. This is the perfect occasion; everyone is busy praising the musicians. Come with me.”

She didn’t have time to protest, for he gently pulled her arm towards the west wing of the temple. Dourer than usual, Dettlaff gave her a silent nod. They walked along the citadel walls away from the crowd until they reached an arched opening leading down to a stairwell.

No one noticed them slipping in besides a couple of golden-specked eyes.

 

*

 

“I’ve had the suspicion your sisterhood of sorceresses had something to do with vampires since we got here,” Regis explained as they descended the stairs. “That suspicion is confirmed. These stairs lead down to a library, an unimpressive one to be honest. Let me show you.”

Rennaugh worried about them trespassing as they reached the base of the stairs. She didn’t wish to anger Sigrdrifa; the people barely tolerated her presence at the temple, and this might be cause for her explement.

“Please, Regis,” she begged, “I wish to be back as soon as possible.”

“I agree,” muttered Dettlaff.

They stepped into a large room that, effectively, resembled a library. Bookshelves leaned against the walls, writing desks scattered in the centre, several lit oil lamps loomed upon them, together with parchment and dust.

Only, the room contained no books. Regis walked up to an empty shelf and traced a line in the dust with his finger.

“Now, what would make a library in a temple empty?” He didn’t wait for his companions to answer. “These shelves ought to be filled with books, but they are not. Where could they have gone?” He approached a plain shelf by the furthest wall. “I took the liberty to inspect this particular item more closely – and lo and behold:”

Regis pressed the furniture gently backwards. It opened into the room with a squeak. Rennaugh jumped from the circular movement, eyes wide. The false shelf revealed a dark tunnel behind it.

Regis gingerly took one of the lanterns from the wall and motioned into the tunnel.

“Come with me, if you please.”

Dettlaff grabbed another lantern from one of the desks and walked in last.

Rennaugh winced as the hidden door closed behind them.

They walked for a few minutes until they reached a wall that marked the end of the corridor. Regis lifted the light in his hand and illuminated a large mosaic on its surface. Made from small, glistening tiles in a greenish hue, the mosaic depicted a long, black snake writhing around its body to bite at its tail, forming a large oval.

“Ouroboros,” explained Regis, “the symbol of time, looping into eternity. It is also the symbol of chaos and order. In Skellige, the snake is called Jormungandr, and is believed to devour the world on the day of Ragh nar Roog, the world’s end. You surely recognize it from the ring I gave to you,” he nodded to Dettlaff, “which was a version of two snakes writing around each other bite at the other’s tail.”

The ring around Rennaugh’s finger hugged her flesh. She flexed her hand as a slight cramp stretched the joint.

“Look,” Regis motioned with the light, “along the lower loop of the snake. A text. It is partly written in the old Skellige dialect, partly written in our language.”

Rennaugh exhaled in surprise. The vampiric language, here?

“What does it say?”

“First of all, Regis explained, “Dathmori” is a translation mistake. The original name was Hath d’Morie.” He directed his eyes to Dettlaff.  “If I told you our language shares the meaning of the word ‘mori’ with the ancient Skellige dialect, what does that tell you of the name?

His blood brother frowned.

“Those who are favourable to the dead.”

“Yes, but the added ‘e’ in the Skellige dialect means ‘-un’ or ‘unable to’. Not dead, Dettlaff. Favourable to those who cannot die.”

Rennaugh’s mouth fell open. She remembered the prophecy – _she who will revive the Dathmori will come with those who cannot die_. They’d found the first sign of the sisterhood since they arrived on the islands.

“There are full sentences in the vampiric language among the etchings,” Regis continued and slid his long fingers along the belly of the snake, “here, for example, it says, ‘Calthi, thu sech ceacnan, Thunina.‘ It means: ‘In this place, she gave birth to a daughter, the first’.”

“Who is she?” Rennaugh whispered.

“I do not know,” Regis admitted, “most of the etchings are in the old Skellige dialect, and I’m afraid my knowledge in the language is lacking.”

He lifted the lantern to gaze up to the top of the mosaic. Its colored, miniature tiles glistened from the light.

“I’d wager,” he continued, “there is something behind this wall. And that it can be opened with a key. If only we could figure out the mechanic…”

Rennaugh extended a hand towards the surface of the wall. Her fingers traced the outline of the snake up to its glistening eye, standing on tiptoe to reach it. Its socket formed a pit under her tip of her finger.

An impulse made her reach for her pendant. She directed her eyes to Dettlaff. She needn’t say anything, he understood her intention.

“Could it be...?” Regis murmured.

Dettlaff grabbed her by the arm.

“Renn, be careful.”

His searing gaze fell on her back as she lifted the pendant from her neck. She stretched to fit the stone into the eye socket of the snake.

After a heartbeat, a light emanated from the eye, like tendrils of gold. The pendant heated in her palm. She fell back, caught by Dettlaff as the wall separated to reveal another set of stairs behind it. The sound of scraping stone filled the corridor.

Rennaugh’s heart hammered in her chest, the pendant still warm in her hand. She sneezed from the dust swirling in the air.

The vampires stared at the opening, one in awe, the other scowling.

Nobody uttered a word as they shared gazes and stepped in to descend the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Etruscan/vampiric language in this chapter:
> 
> Puiva mlach – beautiful wife.  
> Lautni – of the family.  
> Hath – to be favourable.  
> Mori – dead creatures.
> 
> The saga of Freya and [Svipdag](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Svipdagr) – again, I have taken a lot of liberty in adjusting a Norse myth for the sake of this story!
> 
> Elsinore is another name for the Danish city [Helsingør](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Helsing%C3%B8r). I was inspired by how Sapkowski named Angoulême after a French city.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He stiffened as he directed his eyes to the next mosaic – it pictured a man and a woman, his body hidden behind hers, arms around her and his mouth at the crook of her neck, biting down. Blood trickled past her clavicle. The woman craned her neck, eyes closed in rapture – or pain?

Rennaugh and the vampires walked down the stairs revealed behind the image of Ouroboros. In tensed silence, they treaded the damp ground of a long corridor until they reached an open door from where a soft light of lanterns emanated.

Who lit them? The thought ran through Rennaugh’s mind before they stepped into the lost library.

Where ever they placed their gazes, bookshelves stretched in three long rows from one end of the room to the other, stacked with a motley assortment of books, all the way to the ceiling. Some of the book were covered in leather, others in waxed parchment. Some glittered with precious stones, with golden letters on their spines that gleamed in the light from the lanterns. A few of the tomes were tattered, as if burned. The room smelled of dust and ink.

Regis placed his lantern on a desk and surveyed the nearest shelf.

“Fascinating!” he exclaimed.

Rennaugh ran her index finger down the spine of a book. Its ridges bounced against her finger tip.

She turned with a frown. A force, like the stretch of a rubber band, tugged at her chest. She took a few steps towards the short end of the room, the only part not covered in books. Dettlaff wordlessly paced towards the same spot, and the two ended up in front of the wall, surveying the bare structure.

Dettlaff extended his hand and swiped it over the stone.

A pattern in red appeared, flashed bright, and faded. Rennaugh outlined the image of a hand holding up three fingers and a snake in its palm.

An invisible door in the wall opened with a rustle. More dust flew in the air.

Rennaugh caught the eyes of the vampires.

“The lair of an elder,” Regis whispered, paler than usual. “Be careful.”

“There are no other vampires in the temple,” Dettlaff answered, “we would have felt it.”

The invisible band tugged in Rennaugh’s chest, pulled her towards the corridor revealed behind the stone walls.

She reached for Dettlaff’s hand.

He took it and nodded.

“I’ll stay and explore the library,” Regis said and handed Dettlaff his lantern. “Meet me here later.”

Rennaugh and Dettlaff took a few steps into the corridor to descend the stairs.

After reaching the base of the stairs, they continued walking, hand in hand. Dettlaff held the lantern up to light their way. The faint light flickered against the stone.

How far down into the earth have we descended? the thought hit Rennaugh with a spark of worry mixed with excitement in her chest.

Rennaugh let her hand trail along the walls of the corridor. A grey moss covered the stone and formed intricate patterns, like maps of faraway lands. The air filled with the cotton-like smell of the small caps of cortinarius that occasionally speckled the floors.

On automation, Rennaugh internally listed the pharmaceutical uses of the mushroom. Muscle relaxation. Anxiety alleviating. Sleep inducing. May cause constipation and stomach cramps if used incorrectly.

They reached an opening and stepped out into a round cavern outcrop, huge like a citadel. Winged statuses stood scattered around the room, and a carved pillar laid fallen on the edge of its western side. From a crevice in the roof fell a ray of sunshine that landed on a circular formation in the middle of the room. Several other doors opened along the stone walls of the outcrop, some broken, others still intact.

They had reached a crossroad.

A door on the other side of the room caught Rennaugh’s eye. A strange light emanated from its opening. Along its frame appeared another image of Ouroboros biting its tail, like on the mosaic in the library.

She took a few steps out towards the circular formation.

Dettlaff shouted her name. She stumbled from the force of a gushing wind.

From above, a dragon descended to land onto the circle. It stretched its enormous wings and folded them on its back. The snakelike scales on its large body glistened black, but shifted in deep green as it moved, like the hue of a mallard’s neck. Two meaty strings hung from the dragon’s mouth, making it resemble a sturgeon. It regarded Rennaugh with attentive, yellow eyes.

The breath of the dragon rolled in its throat. The sound strangely reminded Rennaugh of the purring of her cats, loud like thunder. It stretched its neck to the ray of light falling from the cavern roof, opened its mouth to reveal long fangs, and let out a cry. It sounded like a clamorous mix of a whale’s sad lowing and the melancholy honk of a crane.

The stone walls trembled. Pebbles and specks of dust fell from the roof and landed with echoing thuds.

Rennaugh’s insides turned liquid. Dettlaff moved to stand in front of her, tense and breathing hard.

The dragon settled on the circle. It regarded them, lids closing and opening over slit pupils.

Rennaugh took a step past Dettlaff. He stopped her with a movement of his arm.

She searched his gaze and shook her head.

“It won’t hurt us.”

“Do not – ” he hissed through gritted teeth.

“Trust me.”

His muscles softened, but his scowl remained. She took a few steps closer.

The dragon tilted its head and snorted. The gush of air caused the laurel still fastened to her hair fall to the ground. Rennaugh stiffened, her heart beating wildly.

A noise entered her mind, indiscernible at first. She outlined a word.

 _Vanadhis_.

Her mouth fell open as a shiver ran down her spine. It spoke to her. Inside her head, the dragon’s voice sounded strangely like a woman’s.

The baby woke. Its fluttery movements trembled in her pelvis.

The dragon observed her before it settled its head on its paws and closed its eyes. The dark scales glistened with every rising breath of the creature. Rennaugh lingered her gaze on the dragon, enraptured.

She never knew they could be so beautiful.

“Let us find a way out,” Dettlaff hissed.

She pointed to the door with the snake mosaic.

“Do you see the light? Let us go there.”

He clenched his fists before he agreed and took her outstretched hand.

 

*

 

Dettlaff prepared to kill the dragon if he had to. He did not revel in the thought. It would be a messy fight, likely leaving him is such a state he’d need years to regenerate.

Years where he would not be able to see Rennaugh or the child. The thought chilled him.

He fought an impulse to fling her over his shoulder and return to the library.

Dettlaff regretted they’d descended the stairs behind the stone wall. He tried to ignore the faint realization the dragon had spoken to him, inside his head. It uttered a name, its syllables piercing his heart like a knife.

Dettlaff took Rennaugh’s hand and let her lead him in a circle around the creature towards the door on the opposite side of the hall.

The dragon didn’t move. Its rolling breath echoed through the hall.

Rennaugh entered the door and let go of his hand. She gasped.

Lit up by crystals hanging from the roof and walls, the large room opened to reveal many, colourful mosaics on the floors and walls. The crystals emanated a strange, fluorescent light, as if they contained stars.

Human and vampire stepped in, their necks bent, mouths open at the sight.

The air of the cavern ran clean through Dettlaff’s lungs. His hypersensitive senses caught a skittering above his head.

A small lizard ran to hide behind one of the stones, its skin shifting in colors as it slithered over the crystals.

Rennaugh neared the walls in awe and let her hand gingerly touch a mosaic picturing a couple embracing. Dettlaff’s heart ached. He loved this about her; how she could be enraptured with the beauty of things, how she let herself stop and enjoy. She blushed and cast a glance at him as she reached the next mosaic. It pictured a naked woman straddling a man’s lap, their position unmistakably erotic.

He arched an eyebrow. She smiled in an expression of bashful delight. Her hand played with the pendant of her chest and the movement drew his gaze to her breasts. His mouth ran dry at the sight of their soft curves.

He stiffened as he directed his eyes to the next mosaic – it pictured a man and a woman, his body hidden behind hers, arms around her and his mouth at the crook of her neck, biting down. Blood trickled past her clavicle. The woman craned her neck, eyes closed in rapture – or pain?

Dettlaff shot his gaze to Rennaugh. Her expression mirrored his surprise and realization.

He walked up to the mosaic.

A gush of air entered the room from the large hall outside, followed by the sound of large, flapping wings and a melancholy cry. Dettlaff took a step to cover Rennaugh’s body against the wall. Another cry, distant.

The dragon left the circular outcrop.

The room fell silent, apart from the faint sound of her heartbeat. The heat from her body caressed his front.

A dry, crackling sound reached his ears.

Tilting their head upwards, they witnessed the eruption of crystal veins that sprawled on the roof of the cavern, intensifying the faint light spreading in the room.

Dettlaff had never seen anything like it. Gone from their geometrical forms, the crystals stretched out like blood vessels. The movement sent a soft, pulsating sound though the air.

A shiver danced down his arms. He froze.

He couldn’t transform. He tried to push at the familiar spikes in his skin to break out into his monstrous being, only to be stuck in his flesh. He tried to dematerialize, only to fail.

He gasped, heart pounding in his chest.

Is this how humans lived in their bodies? This weak, this solid… this grounded?

“What is happening?”

He directed his eyes to Rennaugh. His heart cramped at the sight of her exasperated expression. Something happened to her too.

“My powers – they’re gone!”

 

*

 

Rennaugh mouth fell open as her eyes followed the eruption of crystalline spreading over their heads. It made the same sound as when walking on dry, crisp snow.

She twitched her eyes back to Dettlaff, who still enclosed her against the wall, gasping as if something hit him.

“What is happening?” he groaned. She placed her hands on his chest in worry.

A void entered her veins. She exhaled sharply.

“My powers – they’re gone!”

The first time she lost her powers, she lay bound by the salamander hide. Here, nothing bound her. They were the only thing alive in this room, if not…

 _The crystals_.

“Dettlaff – Regis told me about the crystals. They hinder my magic. It was never the hide…”

She closed her eyes to the unfamiliar sense of neutrality in her blood vessels.

Is this what it was like to be non-magic? Did normal humans experience this… weakness? this neutral harmony?

He gently grabbed her arms.

“Are you alright?”

She opened her eyes, nodding. She _was_ alright. Standing near filled her with a sensation of comfort, and safety, and…

Hyper aware of his body underneath her hands, she melted into the wall behind her.

“You?” she whispered.

He gained a soft expression, nodded in return, and lifted his hand to pick the last, surviving saxifraga from the laurel in her hair. A lustful shudder travelled through her body. She couldn’t take her eyes from his mouth.

“Do you wish to get out of here?”

His eyes grew larger, pupils blown. He exhaled through his nostrils.

“No,” he whispered.

He placed his hand on her cheek and let his thumb gingerly graze the line of her jaw until it reached her lips. She parted them. A slick, pulsating sensation spread between her legs.

There was a new sensation to his touch. His whole being gained solidity in a way she’d never experienced before.

It was madness, but she wanted him. Perhaps all the motifs of couples surrounding them affected their mood…

“Dettlaff… the other morning, before I went to the temple –”

“Yes?” he kept his gaze on her mouth, chest heaving.

“I wanted you. I wanted you to take me – right there, on the bench.”

He growled before he crashed his lips against hers. She lifted her arms around his neck and pressed against him. A mewl escaped her as he tilted her head to gain access to her neck and pushed a knee between her legs, right against the ache. When she opened her eyes, his frame enclosed her, lit up by the soft, blue light of the crystals.

He lifted his head again to catch her gaze with his.

“Are you sure? Do you want –“

“Yes,” she breathed, and kissed him again.

He let his hands trail down to cup her breasts and moved lower to grab at her dress, kneading the cloth by her hips.

She lost all thoughts. The only thing that mattered was to be merged with him, to have him inside her.

She tugged at the fastening of his breeches, but he impatiently shoved her hands away in favour of his more precise movements. He quickly freed them of the irritating layers of cloth. Pressing her against the wall, he grabbed her behind and lifted, so she could wrap her legs around his hips. Her swollen abdomen bumped against him. He blinked and let go of his grip.

She let out a small laughter, hands still on his shoulders. He smiled shortly but gave her a look so full of hunger and longing all humour drained from her.

Swiftly, she turned to let him grab her hips and lifted her skirts before grasping the walls. He didn’t bother to take off his coat, merely pushed it from his hips.

She gasped at the feeling of him hard and hot against her and reached for his hip to move him closer. He lost control and thrust into her in a singular motion that pushed her arms against the walls and had her crying out in lust.

Having him inside her always made her wanton and clenching with need. This time, he filled her in a new way. There was a different form of corporeality in the act.

His satisfied groan told her he felt it too. His fingers dug into the flesh of her hips as she arched her back against him.

He retracted his hips and pushed into her again, hitting that spot inside her that lit up her nerves like a bonfire. Currents of electricity danced on her arms, out to her fingertips, making her skin pebble in goose bumps.

She moved to meet him in each thrust and let all her thoughts flee from her mind, drowning in familiar feelings of amazement and urgency. He let a hand caress her back before it sneaked to her breast where it settled as he continued to drive into her.

Everything concentrated to sense; faint blue light, the smell of leather, musky skin and clean air, the heated arcs of pleasure rippling through her at each snap of his hips. His hand moved down between her legs to draw circles at her centre, and modron, it was perfect; his panting breath and groans of pleasure, her own soft moans, the inability to discern where she began, and he ended. It all blended to a joint sensation of pulsating, heated bliss.

She let out a strangled, joyous cry as he pushed into her hard, like she wanted to. He liked it when she told him, so she groaned,

“Gods, you make me feel _so good_ –“

He _twitched_ inside her. The rhythm of his hips stopped as he let out a curse, close to spilling. It made her smile.

She begged him not to stop, and he obliged.

The crystals hummed.

Getting close, the heat in her body coiled into a pulsating, tight knot. The steadfast hammering of her heartbeat mixed with the sound of his, and of another’s. Connected to the stone walls, the sound of water from above, the roaring fire in her veins, the air around her shuddered and tightened. She climbed higher towards the upcoming release. The sensation rippled through her so fast, so strong; _I don’t know if I can take it…_

When she did, she first sailed on the crevice of her release, gulping for air, before she fell, vision blinded by the same light as the crystals. Her euphoric cry reverberated in the room as her pleasure reached a crescendo.

A strained groan escaped his throat as the rhythm of his hips stuttered. He pushed her to the wall in a tight embrace and sank his teeth into the crook of her neck, trembling. A wave of pleasure-pain made her see stars. She winced.

It broke the spell.

He jerked from her. They drew a synchronized gasp. The blood slowly trickled past her collarbones and smeared the pendant against her chest.

“No. I promised I would never hurt you.” His exasperated expression as he readjusted his breeches ate at her heart. He wiped her blood from his lips with the back of his fingerless gloves. A few drops fell on the floor.

On an impulse, she let her finger trace the punctuations in her skin. Light radiated from her palm. The wound closed, the beginning of a bruise faded.

His lips fell open. “You regenerated. Is – is this what you did to the sorceress?”

“Yes – I don’t know.” She took a few steps towards him.

“No, stay away from me!” His pale face strained.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

She ached. Usually, he asked for her consent before biting, but even as he hadn’t this time, they shared such a beautiful moment, and nothing he did ruined it. He must know this, how none of it should cause him guilt.

She carefully placed her hand on his cheek. He inhaled sharply, but soon, his muscles relaxed. The rhythm of his shallow breath deepened.

She took another step.

They rested in an embrace, eyes closed and hearts hammering.

 

*

 

He raised his head first, his mind still spinning from the aftermath of the orgasm that had nearly sent him to another plane of existence. Tiny stars danced in front of his vision, her blood like sweet wine on his tongue.

Is this what it was like dying?

The light of the sprawled-out crystals still illuminated the room.

Their eyes met.

“We should get out of here. Are you in pain?”

“No. Dettlaff… The dragon. It spoke to me. Did you hear it?”

He nodded.

He bent down on one knee and used the hem of his tunic to gently wipe his spend from the inside of her thighs. She placed her hand on his shoulder with a soft, tender expression. He let his forehead rest against her abdomen, eyes closed.

When he rose, he held his arm around her as they walked on trembling legs to the exit of the room. A faint drip-drip of a nearby fountainhead was the only sound discernible in the great hall.

“Here.” He directed her to the door that would lead them back to the library, driven by intuition.

They reached the tunnel behind the door. He stopped.

A creeping sensation ran through his body. It wasn’t the first time he stepped this floor. A memory flooded him, of pale blue eyes and long, dark hair. A hand forcibly taking his, fleeing…

He opened his eyes with an exhale.

“Renn…”

Their eyes met. Her expression told of no regret, but worry.

“Are you alright?”

He bent forward to embrace her. She wrapped her arms around him and caressed his neck.

 

*

 

He led her through another corridor. Is this where they came from? Rennaugh’s mind still reeled from the memory of the blinding light drowning her. He’d stopped, groaning as if in pain. He let her embrace him but when she asked what was wrong he assured her they could speak of it later; they needed to find a way out.

Now that they were out of the crystal room, her powers returned to her veins in a low hum, ready to jump forward should she need them.

The smell of the ocean became stronger, but the tunnel kept getting darker until they reached another door. Dettlaff pushed it open.

Another citadel full of columns, pillars and statuses. Large cobwebs hung between them, glistening in the light from lit lanterns. Her desperation augmented. Where were they?

A skittering interrupted her train of thought. Dettlaff immediately transformed. His face melted into a wrinkled snout, his fangs protruded, razor-sharp claws grew from his fingers. It happened so fast she didn’t see the creature before it jumped them.

Dettlaff swung his arm and sliced his claws through the leg of a gigantic spider. It screeched and fell on its side, but soon attacked again, blood and mucus splashing from its limb.

Rennaugh screamed.

All her life, she’d feared nothing but other humans - and spiders. The eight-legged creatures made her stiff like a corpse with fright. Growing up, other children teased her for it and tormented her by slinging spiders into her hair.

“Rennaugh, get back into the tunnel!” Dettlaff growled. She stood rooted to the spot, eyes large with terror.

Dettlaff shifted into invisibility and surprised the creature by appearing behind it, slashing at another leg. The spider hissed and moved to face him, thrashing to sink its venomous fangs into his chest. He ceased the momentum and jumped on its back. Grabbing the spider by its coarse hairs, he forcefully pierced its carapace with a crack, roaring from the effort. The spider skittered back and forth, slipping in its own blood that grew on the floor underneath it.

Chest heaving, Dettlaff jumped off the creature’s back. It fell with a shudder. The spider squealed, faintly.

A stench of rotten meat emanated from the carcass, a fetid smell that churned Rennaugh’s insides.

More skittering emerged from the hall. Behind Dettlaff appeared more spiders, smaller than the one he killed, but outnumbering it by hundreds. Three of them jumped Dettlaff and sank their fangs into his shoulder. He groaned and thrashed to get them off.

Rennaugh didn’t think. She lifted her hand and let out a blast of energy that scattered the insects along the walls of the room. Some exploded on the impact, others merely fell thudding and screeching. Dettlaff also fell onto the floor. More spiders emerged to run towards them.

“Rennaugh, no!” Dettlaff roared, but it was too late.

Crackling energies of orange lightning surrounded her, lifted her hair from her shoulders with a fizz. Her eyes turned white. The whole room shook, the stone rumbled and groaned. Cracks grew in the stone, emanating from her feet. Several of the spiders lost their balance, screeching. She raised her hand and clenched it into a fist, and with a pang, the roof of the cavern broke loose. The fallen boulders and crumpling plaster twisted in the air. Ocean water tumbled in from the chasm.

She gazed at the starry night. The moon shone like a beacon.

The pain in her abdomen seared like fire.

She inhaled sharply before the waters engulfed them.

 

*

 

Rennaugh’s body lifted through the air, pressed against a scaly chest. Large wings flapped over her head. Her wet hair laid plastered over her face, obscuring her eyesight.

A melancholy cry, like a thunderous trumpeting of a crane, nearly split her head in two. She sank back into unconsciousness.

 

*

 

The people of Skellige later spoke of the earthquake in 1281 as one of the least catastrophic to hit the islands. It shook the ground in Lofoten and Larvik, causing a certain ruckus. A few smaller buildings fell over, but there was only one casualty; an elderly man who died from a heart attack.

Some people claimed they witnessed a winged monster fly over the island on the night of the earthquake, but the sight was widely regarded as the exaggerations of drunkards.

It was the night of Walpurgis, after all.

Because of two other occurrences overshadowing the happening, the people of Skellige quickly forgot the earthquake.

Firstly, the marriage of the Empress of Nilfgaard to Hjalmar an Craite the day after.

But above all, the awakening of the garden.

On the day after the Walpurgis celebration, the great grove of Freya sprung alive. The leaves of the great Bough of Dahti sprouted lush and green. Flower beds sparkled with life, bushes and herbs bloomed in overwrought colors. Bees buzzed within the bells of foxgloves and landed on cress and monk’s hood, ladybugs climbed the stalks of rhododendron and bleeding hearts, marigolds and king’s lily’s. Gold wing admirals fluttered on top of hortensia’s, columbines and magnolia. Herbs once more sprouted in the soil of the garden; allspice, sage, rosemary, chive, hyssop, chervil, wormwood, mandrake, lovage, marjoram, tansy, thyme, meadowsweet, fool’s parsley leaves, and wolfsbane. Purple clusters of lilacs rustled in the winds and spread their fair scent.

The old fountains came alive, sprinkling crystal-clear waters that pooled in the carved leaf-like outcrops where small birds bathed.

Rennaugh wasn’t there to see it. She lay in the cabin, bleeding once more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to all the fantasy RPG’s where you can’t enter a cavern without getting attacked by monster spiders (I’m looking at you Bioware)!
> 
> Speaking of Bioware, crystals resembling blood vessels is inspired by [Lyrium](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Lyrium) in the Dragon Age games. 
> 
> Rennaugh losing her powers from being exposed to a lizard (well, not) is inspired by the [Ysalamir](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Ysalamir) in the Star Wars universe. Vampires being weakened by crystals is non-canonical in the Witcher universe, however, the crystals in this fic are inspired by the ones you find in the lair of the Elder in Touissant. 
> 
> I was inspired by the wonderful [Spirited Away](https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0245429/) when modelling the dragon in this chapter, only I don’t imagine “my” dragon to be quite as snake-like as Haku (and black rather than white of course). 
> 
> This chapter marks the end of the second “part” of this fic. In the third and last part, we will meet Rennaugh’s and Dettlaff’s child. Because yes, this chapter ended badly, but things will be ok.
> 
> Thank you so much, every one of you who has read, given kudos and commented so far! It truly means a lot <3


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It would explain why you have been able to bear a child together. Yes, that would make sense! A form of isomorphism – perhaps you are unfamiliar with the term?"

 

Rennaugh woke up by a searing pain in her abdomen, gasping. She immediately grasped her belly and let a flood wave of energies radiate through her palms. Cold sweat broke out on her forehead, but she fought down her panic with icy determination. The planned birth date was still two months away; the baby would surely die if it were born now. She commanded her body to keep the child, to fight the convulsions shaking her. She didn’t care about her promise not to use her powers. Her intuition stopped any doubt.

She would not let this child die.

Tendrils of orange light emanated from her fingers, like a silken thread that weaved a delicate pattern inside her. The sensation reminded her of a warm embrace.

Soon, the contractions stopped. She opened her eyes.

Regis approached and cupped the back of her head with his hand. He placed a mug against her lips; a clear, non-fragrant liquid flowed into her mouth. The potion soothed her mind, she recognized the taste.  It would help her sleep. 

“Where is he?” She croaked. Her throat ached. Only after seeing Regis nod an assertion he was ok did she dare to let the effects of the potion lull her mind asleep.

 

*

 

Triss leaned back against the walls of her copper bathtub in her house in Pont Vanis and sighed with satisfaction. A milky light fell through the condensation on the window panes of the room. The steamy waters hovered with a mild fragrance of verbena. She grabbed a flask filled with an aromatic oil, massaged it into her hair, and let her thoughts return to the wedding in Cintra.

The historians would speak of it as one of the most beautiful ceremonies ever to have occurred in the known world.

White draperies covered the streets. The people dressed in their finest garments as they gathered under the alabaster corbels of the castle that shone in the clear sunlight, cheering the royal couple. The flags of Skellige and Cintra, now the symbol of the Empress as much as the golden sun, flapped in the fair spring winds, covering the city in silken colors.

Ciri wore a dress in fine, ivory silk, with a ten-foot trailing and long, elegant sleeves hanging down to her pearl-encrusted shoes. A lace bodice, sewn with inlaid white pearls, covered her shoulders and chest. Her ashen hair carried a silver crown, covered in pearls and orange blossoms from Touissant. Hjalmar towered beside her, his broad shoulders covered in a white wolf tartan over a red bodice embroidered with intricate runes and embellished with a shining silver chain. Underneath, he wore black silken trews and fine leather boots. His red hair and beard shone like a lit flame, his eyes softened with near unbelievability whenever he glanced at his bride. His sister wore similar garments, but with a long, silken dress and the Skellige crown, a silver circlet, that caressed her forehead.

For the first time since the battle of Sodden, Triss wore a dress with a generous décolletage, also cut low in the back. It was an elven design; green with pattern of gold and a belt with a shining topaz. Around her neck hung a golden necklace in a pattern of leaves, and on her forehead rested a thin filigree of gold to form a pattern of a cross.

Geralt placed a hand on the small of her back and whispered she looked beautiful, and she couldn’t help the spiteful glee that flashed in her when she caught Fringilla Vigo’s icy glare.

The Duchess of Touissant nodded coldly at Geralt, surrounded by a flock of admirers. The beautiful ruler of the small vassal state attracted much attention from the nobility of Cintra.

Triss’ smile faded when Philippa approached her with short nod.   

“Triss,” she crooned in a voice smooth like silk, “you haven’t told me everything about your visits to the Skellige isles. This isn’t the occasion for discussing the matter in depth, but I expect you to be more honest with me in the future.”

Triss opened her mouth but was saved by Yennefer who took her arm and led her towards the banquet.

The reception served various foods from around the world; pickled herring, stuffed cabbage, boiled codfish, smoked salmon, trout, and pike, garlic infused snails and frog legs, ham, diverse types of game; wild boar, deer, rabbit, smoked reindeer and moose, and pink slices of smoked venison. Pies, seasoned with mushrooms and topped with rowanberries and cloudberries decorated the tables together with large cheese wheels. The guests cheered at the servings of grouse, pheasant and quail, roasted in mistle and cranberry. They stuffed their mouths with Ofieri sweets and Makahaman pudding, as well as quivering, varicoloured jelly; a speciality of Poviss. The wedding cake towered on a table of its own, ten layers of sponge cake with strawberries, cream and sugar coating on a bed on figs mixed with hazel and walnuts, decorated by eatable golden etchings of a massive trireme.

Wine flowed from fountains, ale and lager tapped from oak barrels by hurrying servants. Triss sat by the honour’s table, next to Geralt and Yennefer, who beamed with pride at the royal couple. On their other side sat the former Emperor, with relatives from the an Craite clan. Triss was proud – proud to sit at Ciri’s table, in her castle, in her city. She often glanced at the Empress who smiled, but in a controlled fashion. She must have felt the eyes of the Cintrian nobility on her, observing every step of their new queen.

Triss never had the chance to talk to Ciri the whole night, besides a congratulation with quick kisses on the cheeks and a hearty handshake with Hjalmar.

She did have the chance to speak to Yennefer about Rennaugh’s healing powers, after the raven-haired sorceress arched an eyebrow at Triss’ chest.

Yennefer wore an exquisite, black silk dress with a slit that revealed one of her slender legs, embroidered with white floral pattern on the hem and embellished with speckled feathers at the shoulders. On top of her raven locks laid a circlet with inlaid emeralds and diamonds, a gift from the Empress.

“I think it’s related to the pendant her mother left her. It radiates with magic.”

“No news of the sisterhood of sorceresses?” Yennefer replied. “I should have spoken to Sigrdrifa… but I didn’t wish to linger on the islands.”

“You’ve done enough, Yenna. More than Rennaugh could have asked from you.”

“That is correct,” Yennefer lifted her chin and surveyed the crowd of dancing nobility. “I often regret going through all the trouble of researching those ‘ixa’s’. I was bored, simple as that. Where is Regis, by the way?”

They failed to see the vampire among the guests.

“Perhaps he’s unable to attend large events like these...” Triss scanned the crowd with her green gaze.

It was curious, she thought, that he would decline without a word.

They learned of the earthquake the day after. Triss and Yennefer sat by the castle training grounds while Geralt and Ciri sparred. The wedding feast would be celebrated for another six days, but this morning offered a pause. A relaxed smile rested on Ciri’s face, a smile that faded as her consort hurried onto the training grounds with his sister in trail. They told of the earthquake, and although it hadn’t hit the islands hard, Cerys would travel back to Kaer Trolde the same day.

Yennefer, Triss and Geralt shared glances. All thought of Regis and his companions.

Fortunately, Regis arrived the same night, assuring them all was well.

He greeted Geralt with a hearty embrace. The first time Ciri met Regis, her teeth clattered with terror. Now, she embraced him like a beloved, long-lost friend and introduced him to her husband.

During dinner, Regis surprised them by letting them know he was on his way to Touissant. “To meet an old friend,” he explained.

Still so pensive, Triss thought. They spoke about her returning to Hindarsfjall in June, in time for the birth of the baby.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Geralt who opened the door to the bathroom.

“Hey Fox,” he said.

Triss turned to him, smiling. Her expression twisted into worry when he, ruffled and dirty, stepped in, bleeding from a cut in the shoulder. He’d taken another witcher job, claiming he did it because he needed to keep his abilities sharp, but Geralt couldn’t say no when people came to him for help.

“What happened?”

“A foglet, outside Berge forest. Gave me a good fight.”

She sighed, arched an eyebrow and stood up.

“Let me get my kit of needles and thread while you take that dirty armour off.”

“With pleasure.” He caught her and placed her on his lap.

“You’re bleeding!” Laughter bubbled in her stomach.

“And you’re beautiful.”

 

*

 

Regis knocked on the heavy doorway to the estate. Nightfall enclosed the part of the cobbled street not lit by the occasional oil lamps. The cicadas screeched, the temperature whisked pleasantly mild breezes against his skin. He inhaled the lush scent of summer roses in the Beauclair air.

This beauty of this city always took the breath out of him.

One of Orianna’s guardsmen peered out of a square hole in the gates. “Your name?”

“Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy”

“Enter.”

The doorway opened with a creak.

Orianna greeted him on the bailey overlooking her lush garden, elegant as always, dressed in a crimson plush dress with flower embroidery and a long necklace of black pearls hanging down her décolletage.

“Regis,” she smiled.

They kissed, the Touissant way on the cheeks. He inhaled her familiar scent of herbs, not unlike his own.

“Orianna. You have changed your hair.”

She let her hand caress a red strand flowing down her neck. “I wore it like this in my youth. Do you remember?”

“I do. Just like I remember every dress you’ve ever worn.”

She laughed softly. “Come. I’ve had my best bottle of Est Est brought from the cellar.”

They settled by the same table they had sat at those years ago during the masquerade, when Geralt met Dettlaff for the first time.

Regis indulged in the wine; young, round, silky like blood.

He placed the hock on the cambric table cloth.

“Orianna, I’ve come to ask you a favour. One I’ll hardly be able to repay.”

Her dark eyes gleamed in the flames of the lit candles.

“I need you to go to him,” Regis continued. “To ask him of the whereabouts of the Tdet Elder. You know our Elder wouldn’t grant me audience. Not after…”

Orianna narrowed her eyes.

After Dettlaff flooded Beauclair with his loyal lesser vampires, threatening a several hundred years of peace between vampires of humans, he wasn’t Orianna’s favourite subject of conversation. Unwilling to abandon her lifestyle, she resented his actions for nearly pulling the rug under her affluent, incognito existence in Beauclair. She especially prized her position as philanthropist, financing the city’s orphanage, which served as her blood bank.

Regis pursed his lips. Orianna’s addiction was likely to augment with time, like it had for him. Soon, she would make a mistake, and it would all be over.

“The Elder would accept my audience,” she said leisurely, “but why do you wish to know to where the Tdet Elder resides?”

“Me and Dettlaff live on Skellige. I’ve seen the Tdet symbol in a temple on Hindarsfjall. I am interested to know when they were on the islands; and why they abandoned them.”

Orianna swivelled the contents of her glass while regarding him with an unpleasant smile.

“You _live_ on those grisly islands? How exotic of you! I never knew you enjoyed frigid weathers, Regis.”

She fell in pensive silence at his expression.

“The Tdet tribe, on Skellige… Impossible. Are you sure you didn’t see the symbol of the Ammurun?”

“That would have made more sense,” Regis replied, “but no. I’m certain it was the snake and the hand. Dettlaff opened the entrance inside the temple.”

Orianna’s lips fell open.

“I’ve always found Dettlaff to resemble the Tdet vampires. Those blue eyes… I heard his band of pets abandoned him, by the way.”

”Yes… One might say he has a new pack. Orianna – will you do it?”

“I will.”

He smiled. She accepted because of her affection for him – and because she enjoyed boasting her kinship to the elder.

“Give me a day or two. The estate is yours while I’m gone. So is the orphanage, should you wish.”

“You know I won’t.”

Her eyes flashed.

“I know you crave the blood of children, Regis. So dense, so velvety… It flows like a hymn in your body, leaving you strong and weak at the same time… It makes you forget, Regis. To not care.”

His heart accelerated. This was why he avoided frequent fraternization with Orianna.

“You know you can’t do this forever. The humans will send someone after you. A witcher.”

“Let him come.” She lowered her chin and smiled to show her fangs before taking another sip of wine. “It will be a night to remember.”

 

*

 

Dettlaff cast a worried glance on Rennaugh as she ate oat porridge from a bowl. Her hand trembled.

“Try to eat the dried meat. You need the iron.”

She swallowed and made no movement to reach for the pieces of smoked reindeer heart beside her. He observed the purple strands under her eyes in worry.

“Are you sure you are alright?”

She flicked her gaze to his.

“Yes. No - Dettlaff, I lost control. Yennefer was right. I am a hazard.”

He sat down beside her, pulled her to him and placed a kiss on her temple.

“You are not. You wished to protect me, you always do.”

They had spoken about what happened in the cave, tried to wrap their heads around what it all meant; the vampire symbols, the dragon, the mosaics, them coming together like someone pulled at their strings… Regis held a few pieces of the missing puzzle, but he had left them as soon as he had made sure they were alright, to go to Cintra and the wedding. He told them he would be away for a week at least, searching for answers outside the islands.

Dettlaff couldn’t remember much after the spiders and the flooding of the cave, only that he transformed – in ways he wished she’d never have to see. He didn’t remember how they got back to the cabin, but they did, it was all that mattered.

She was alive, and well, albeit exhausted.

She’d used magic to save their child, affecting her entire body – the most visible sign on her cheek. Her scar no longer intersected her face red and jagged, but like a faintly discernible, white thread. The scar on her right arm had vanished; her previously brick-red fingers were white and smooth.

Her change left a cold knot in him. It would attract unwanted attention, especially the vanished scar on her face. How were they going explain it to the people of Hindarsfjall?

The whole ordeal left her drained. He went cold and hot. He had been useless, unconscious and struggling to reform into his normal self, when she lay bleeding… He would not let her out of his sight again.

Dettlaff stood up as the steps of Regis approaching the cabin reached his ears.

Both greeted him as he entered their house.

“Ah, my dear friends. How are you? I trust you have both recovered well?”

Rennaugh nodded in reply and embraced him. He exchanged a warm handshake with Dettlaff.

“I’m sorry I had to leave in such a haste,” he continued, “but I do have some answers to the mystery of the ixa’s.”

He sat down and pursed his lips.

“No, that is incorrect. I have further questions, but at least some additional information that sheds light on what we encountered in the crypts of the temple.”

He accepted a mug of hot tea from Rennaugh.

“I have been to Touissant. To Beauclair, to be more specific. I sent Orianna on a mission, one she accomplished with bravura.”

Dettlaff’s face darkened at the name of the Touissant capital.

“She went to our elder – Rennaugh, I believe we have never told you of our clans?” He continued as she shook her head, “Us vampires belong to three different clans; founded soon after we were forced to this world after the conjunction. Me, Orianna and Dettlaff belong to Garasham. The other clans are called Tdet and Ammurun. Here – the symbol on my gloves.”

Rennaugh slanted her gaze to the embroidered circle on his hands that enclosed a triangle with three other circles at each of its sides.

“It symbolises the unity of our tribes. However, we rarely meet with vampires from Tdet or Ammurun, for they no longer reside on the continent.”

“The vampires of the Ammurun tribe journeyed beyond the Great Sea not long after the conjunction,” Dettlaff filled in. “The Tdet vampires ventured beyond the Blue Mountains. It was their symbol we saw in the temple crypts.”

“The hand with the snake,” Rennaugh breathed.

“Which is a mystery,” Regis interjected, “as we should have seen the hand grasping a dagger – the symbol of the Ammurun, since it was they who ventured over the sea and thus could have, hypothetically, visited Skellige.”

“You spoke of an Elder.” Rennaugh reached for a piece of the smoked reindeer heart.

“Elders are vampires who arrived in the conjunction of the spheres. They have extraordinary powers, even for a vampire. They guard the portals from where we came into this world. You see,” he switched to cross his legs, “we vampires acknowledge no gods, but if we have any religious view, it is the hope that the portals will one day open and we will be able to return to our home world.”

Regis’ words scraped Rennaugh’s insides. Their home world. A place where she did not belong and could never go.  

“Do you…” she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, “Do you wish to one day to go back? Through the portals?”

“No,” Dettlaff grumbled as if he had anticipated her question. “I was born in this world: I would be as alien to the vampire plane of existence as I am to this.” He folded his arms on his chest. “For vampires who have been born on this earth, there can be no peace, no home.”

She lost all appetite.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and reached for his hand.

He took it and opened his mouth as to say something, but remained silent.

The baby awoke and moved in her pelvis. As often these days, it shook her insides with a hiccup. She smiled and placed a hand on her belly to outline the form a tiny bottom underneath her palm. Feeling her child move always grounded her.

Regis interrupted the weighty atmosphere.

“I intend to search for and find the Tdet elder. According to Orianna, he resides in the Blue Mountains, not beyond them.”

“No,” Dettlaff said, “he will kill you for interrupting his slumber.”

“Kill you?” Rennaugh’s eyes darted from one vampire to the other. “I thought the vampire code –“

“The code does not pertain to elders,” Regis explained. “They have power over other vampires. If summoned, we must obey. They can also control our bodies in certain ways, immobilize us and inflict pain with a mere gaze. They are extraordinarily dangerous creatures.”

Rennaugh leaned forward to grab his hand.

“Then don’t go. Please.”

He smiled reassuringly.

“I will not leave yet, at least. Not until the baby is born.” He patted her hand, but knitted his eyebrows in a serious expression.

“But there is another matter to discuss. In the library, before the commotion with the earthquake, I found several books on the history of the Hath d’Morie. I managed to write down what I believe is their motto, or code, see here:”

He presented a piece of parchment with scribbling in charcoal in front of them. Rennaugh leaned forward. It took her a little while to outline his handwriting.

 

There is no death – there is the force of the elements.

Through the force, I gain strength.

Through strength, I rule over chaos.

Through eternal life, my chains will be broken.

 

Dettlaff paced, his agitated energy radiating from his stiffened shoulders.

“They were mad! Eternal life is a chain!”

The taste in Rennaugh’s mouth turned to ash. Because she lived with immortals who didn’t revere the inability to die as a blessing, she internally recoiled at this revelation.

Is this the legacy she came to seek? The people she’d wished would give her a sense of belonging?

Still, for her, mortality was a chain.

“Regis,” she said, “could this mean the Hath d’Morie were vampires?”

His answer was obvious to her before he opened his mouth.

“No, Rennaugh, these ixa’s held raw magic powers, controlled the elements, like you. No vampire has magic abilities, although we have certain… talents. The name gives us the clue to some manner of worship of vampires. They would not be the only humans to perform such rituals; the custom is still common in Touissant…”

He stiffened, eyes wide, as if struck by lightning.

“Regis?”

“‘She gave birth to a daughter, the first’,” he breathed. “The ixa’s weren’t vampires. They tried to _become_ vampires.”

He stood up to pace back and forth in the room.

“They must have tried – perhaps even found a way – to procreate with vampires! That must be it! But how did this rapport between the ixa’s and vampires start? And why have we never heard of this before?”

The atmosphere of the room shifted to become tense like stretched cloth. The smattering toot of the Borean owl, perched on the large fir outside their window, interrupted their silence.

Regis stopped his pacing.

“Rennaugh, this _could_ mean you are of vampire origin, at least partly. It would explain why you have been able to bear a child together. Yes, that would make sense! A form of isomorphism – perhaps you are unfamiliar with the term? Its sociological meaning refers to similarity or equality in the sense of being or becoming alike.”

Rennaugh let her eyes meet Dettlaff’s in open bewilderment.

“Regis,” Dettlaff muttered as he turned his gaze to his blood brother, “we need to tell you what happened in the crypt, after we left the library.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was inspired by the dress of [Grace of Monaco](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wedding_dress_of_Grace_Kelly) when writing Ciri’s wedding dress. 
> 
> I bet you recognize [Triss’ dress](http://witcher.wikia.com/wiki/Alternative_look_for_Triss)?
> 
> I had a pic reference for Yennefer’s dress but I can’t find it anymore! :( note to self: always save your references. 
> 
> I don’t ship Regis and Orianna, but I imagine him using flirtation as part of his social skills. “I remember every dress you’ve ever worn” is from the wonderful song [I Don’t Really Love You Anymore](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=suCKosMKh-0) by The Magnetic Fields. 
> 
> I find it frustrating how CDPR couldn’t stick to their own lore when they let Geralt kill Orianna in [A Night to Remember](http://witcher.wikia.com/wiki/A_Night_to_Remember). Either higher vampires can’t be killed by any other than their own kind, or they can. 
> 
> The Code of the Hath d’Morie is inspired by the [Code of the Sith](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Code_of_the_Sith).
> 
> Btw – ‘ixa’ is taken from the Swedish word for witch – häxa. 
> 
> Have you ever heard [ the smattering toot of the Borean owl](https://www.xn--fgelsng-exae.se/parluggla/)?


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rennaugh’s body flung forward by a labour pain so powerful it pushed the air out of her lungs. Regis ushered her onto the table, on her back. All thoughts flew from her mind.

Content warning: this chapter describes a child birth. Vaginal birth can be a messy, bloody, and painful experience and I haven’t held back on any details describing it. If this is something you don’t wish to read, I suggest you stop after Rennaugh says “I will” and proceed to the end notes where I have described the happening in a few sentences.

\---

Cerys an Craite, the elected Queen of Skellige, cast a disgruntled gaze at the two persons in front of her.

To her right, the High priestess of the temple of Freya proudly held her chin high. To her left, the Hierophant of the Skellige druidic circle peered at her, his bushy eyebrows knitted in a frown.

Together, they were the two most powerful religious leaders of the islands, and next in power over the hearts and souls of the Skellige people to herself.

The air was thick enough to be cut with a knife.

“No ordinary earthquake caused the breach – magic did. My Queen, it cannot be a coincidence it happened on the night of Walpurgis. The garden coming to life is equally a result of magic, unrestrained and uncontrolled -”

“The awakening of the garden,” High priestess Sigrdrifa interrupted the Hierophant, “is a sign of a new era dawning. It is high time to change the priestess order. You have introduced several changes to the druidic order, I don’t see how this is different.”

“To accept other races into the ranks of the priestesses, married women, mothers! it is such a fundamental change it would transform the entire order! You cannot abide by this sacrilege!” The Hierophant motioned furiously to the queen.

“Do not tell me what sacrilege is regarding my own order!” Sigrdrifa blushed with restrained anger.

Cerys drew a deep breath.

She was not happy to intervene in religious matters. As a ruler, she kept a code of retaining an arm’s length principle towards the priestesses and the druids. Theirs were the matters of the unworldly, the ethereal, the soul of men and nature. Hers were the matters of the lands, the army, the fleet and the crown. The people needed both types of power, but hers ultimately triumphed over theirs. Never without losing the hearts of the people, though. She needed them.

Cerys switched weight on the throne. The leather in her pants groaned.

“Sigrdrifa is right, Haerviu. You have implemented rather radical changes to the druidic order since your ascendance as Hierophant. Why shouldn’t she be free to reform her order? The priestesses haven’t always been organised the same way over the centuries, have they?”

“A married woman’s place is with her family! Any unmarried women, too unpleasant to find a husband, can join the priestesses to their liking…”

Silence fell like a heavy stone. Cerys was yet unmarried.

“I see,” she said icily, “and all the unpleasant men are welcome to join the druidic order, I presume?”

The hierophant blushed, but from anger, not shame, Cerys thought.

 _I knew I would have trouble with Haerviu the day he shouldered the mantle of Hierophant_. Although wise, the druid was ambitious and passionate in a way that opposed Cery’s understanding of what the druidic circle needed. However, the order chose their leader without the interference of the crown, and she wished to respect that autonomy.

“Of course not. Only those who have felt the calling…”

“It is the same with the priestesses, Haerviu, and you know it. Besides,” Sigrdrifa spoke to the Queen, “the problem of young priestesses leaving the order to marry has weakened it. We need to reform in order to survive.”

“You wish to abandon the oath of purity! Should the temple become a nursery? The people will resent it! and…”

Cerys held up her hand to bid silence. She gazed out into the great hall of Kaer Trolde, and fastened her eyes on the large, stuffed bear she and her brother lovingly named Otto as children. I miss Hjalmar on occasions like these, she thought, and pushed her rust-colored braid behind her shoulder.

The hierophant had a point, but Sigrdrifa must have contemplated the inclusion of married women and other races for long. She needed to meet both in this matter.

“I see no reason why individuals of the other races shouldn’t be able to join the ranks of the priestesses, should they have heard the calling. To accept married women is another matter. They wouldn’t contribute to their households and therefore make poor wives.”

Sigrdrifa smiled. Her male counterpart scowled.

“A small income might be the answer. Why not? But I have another request, my queen.”

A spark of irritation flared in Cerys. Sigrdrifa should know better than to tread on thin ice.

“Yes?” she barked.

“I want any girls found to have magic abilities on these islands to be sent to the temple for training.”

The druid scoffed.

“Impossible! Preposterous –“

Once again, Cerys held up her hand.

“No, Sigrdrifa. You know it’s impossible. The traditions of these islands forbid it.”

“Do we even remember why anymore?” The high priestess implored. “At least three young girls have been sent from their families the last decade. In my care, they could…”

“You would have drooling fools at the temple! Have you already forgotten who killed the grove?” The druid spat, “who stole the mask of Ouroboros? Have you forgotten how the entire continent fell into war because of the machinations of witches?”

Cerys placed a palm on her forehead. Not only did she have to deal with the religious leaders of the islands pestering each other like jealous siblings, she had also received a letter from her brother about a quelled uprising among the Nilfgaardian nobility, disgruntled by the Empress’ tendency to spend all her time in Cintra.

Cerys was going to need a hot bath and a large glass of wine after this day.

“The answer is no, Sigrdrifa. I will not meddle in your wish to accept elves, dwarves or halflings into your order. But no married women. The responsibility to send any force sensitive child to the continent is still yours, Haerviu.”

The druid nodded in satisfaction, but Cerys turned a stony gaze to him.

“You still haven’t given me a proper explanation to the storm that nearly devastated one of my best cargo ships, Haerviu. I want to understand what happened.”

He inflated, unable to give her any information.

“My queen, I…”

“I see. This audience is over.”

The hierophant stiffened and gave the two women a reluctant nod. He turned to leave the great hall, robes flowing behind him like a grey wave. Sigrdrifa nodded back, coldly, and waited not to follow in his heels.

On the courtyard, the Hierophant approached the High priestess, hands behind his back. He let his cold blue eyes latch onto hers.

“I know you know of the prophecy, Sigrdrifa. It will not be fulfilled. No, mark my words, it will not.”

A cold shiver ran down the High priestess’ spine.

“What in the goddess’s name are you talking about, Haerviu?”

“My order made a promise to safeguard these islands from witches and black magic. We will never forget our purpose. We have not forgotten about the depravity of the witches’ order.”

“Don’t tell me you believe in fairy tales, Hierophant? Or have you gone completely mad?”

He retracted from her, his gaze calm, before leaving through the arched gateway.

Although the sun shone warm and bright over the courtyard, she shivered.  

 

*

 

Rennaugh grasped the reins of Gullfaxi with shaking hands. She stifled an unreasonable urge to knock a tree down with her powers but acting out in a tantrum wouldn’t help undo her anger.

Underneath her animosity spread a weighty sensation that settled like a lump in her throat.

Had she, by becoming pregnant, unknowingly repeated the history of an association of sorceresses who wished to achieve immortality? What parts of her life did she control, and what parts were fettered to some cruel scheming of destiny?

This is my life, she thought, jaw clenched as she urged Gullfaxi to trot faster, my life and no one else’s, this is _my_ child, mine and his, not some pawn…

She tucked the idea of being of vampiric origin back into a closed part of her mind, not ready to deal with it yet.

Rennaugh barged into the temple of Freya and directed her hurried steps towards the private room of Sigrdrifa. Her steps down the stairs echoed against the temple walls, candles flickered as she hurried past.

One of the priestesses met her on her way to Sigrdrifa’s quarters.

“The High priestess left yesterday for an audience with the queen. She’ll be back tonight.”

“I’ll wait, if you don’t mind.”

The priestess shook her head and cast a worried glance on Rennaugh before continuing to the dormitory.

Sigrdrifa arrived only half an hour later.

“Rennaugh. I had a feeling you might come. Here, join me in my quarters.”

The High priestess wore a purple smock and accompanying cap, with her most elaborate girdle around her hips, clothes worn only on special occasions, such as an audience with the Queen. She ushered Rennaugh into her rooms, a combined office and bedroom, with a large desk and a separate space for her spartan bed.

During her wait for the high priestess, Rennaugh’s temper cooled, but her muscles still stiffened from what she wished to say. A rush of fatigue left her head aching; lately, the pregnancy took its toll on her.

“Modron,” she said, “on the night of Walpurgis, me and my family found the empty library. I want to know why it is there, and why it is empty. Tell me about the etchings on the wall in the corridor.”

Sigdrifa sat on her chair by the desk, her expression calm.

“And what were you doing down there, may I ask? Do you consider the temple to be your playground?”

Rennaugh refused to be intimidated by the attempt at diminishing her.

“My – Regis, he got lost, and found the library. He wanted me to see it. I want to know why it is empty.” She took a deep breath. “I want to know about the history of the sisterhood of sorceresses, Sigrdrifa.”

“Well, that is a lot for me to answer,” the High priestess said calmly as if Rennaugh had asked her for the recipe for sponge cake. “The first question is simple. The library is empty because we have been robbed. We guard the history of these islands. Less than a year ago, a valuable book, written on the topic of this sisterhood you speak of, disappeared. The rest of the collection has been moved since.”

“Then you do not deny it. There was a sisterhood of sorceresses.”

“I do not. Tell me, how much do you know?”

Rennaugh told her what she had learned from Yennefer. The sisterhood were force users, with the ability to control the elements, called ixa’s. She told how the story went, about how the ixa’s performed black magic, why the people of Skellige turned to a brotherhood of mages to overthrow them and how after, druids and priestesses formed exclusive congregations in praise of the goddess.

Sigrdrifa confirmed; yes, the legends told it so.

“What about the vampires?”

Sigrdrifa frowned.

“What vampires?”

“The inscriptions on vampire speech in the empty library! I saw them!”

“Those inscriptions are in the ancient Skellige dialect. I know nothing about vampires.”

“No, they were also in vampiric speech,” Rennaugh said, hard.

The High priestess narrowed her eyes.

“And how would you know?”

Rennaugh snapped her mouth shut. She feared she had exposed her family in her ire.

“The witcher Geralt of Rivia,” she said and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. “I was a guest at his estate for several months last year. He told me of the history of vampires in Touissant, showed me etchings of their language…”

Sigrdrifa listened attentively, the golden specks of her brown eyes glistening like sun through brandy.

“As I said, I know nothing about any vampire etchings,” she said. “But never mind that. I wish to speak to you in a different matter, Rennaugh. I need to know I can trust you.”

Before Rennaugh uttered a word, Sigrdrifa walked past her, opened the door to her quarters and called a priestess walking past.

“Please take her here,” she spoke lowly.

Rennaugh frowned, perplexed. This conversation took an unanticipated turn.

“I want you to meet someone, Rennaugh” the High priestess said as a girl of ten years old came into her room, accompanied by a priestess. “This is Astrid. She is an orphan from Lofoten.”

The girl wore her dark hair in two braids, a white linen dress with a brown apron and leather sandals. Her large blue eyes peered at Rennaugh, thin lips pressed together in nervousness.

“Good evening,” she whispered.

Rennaugh greeted the girl, confused and heart clenched.

“Two years ago,” Sigrdrifa explained with her hands on the girls’ shoulders, “a girl with magical powers was discovered on Ard Skellig. Her parents found her floating an object in the air. After her, three more were found, one on Ard Skellig, one on Undvik, and another on Hindarsfjall; our Astrid here. This amount of force sensitive children is extremely unusual in such a brief time.”

“You may return,” she smiled at the little girl, who walked out and grabbed the hand of a young priestess.

Rennaugh stood rooted to the spot, her gaze turned inwards.

A little girl, with powers like hers. A decade ago, it could have been her. Chills wandered down her spine.

“You want me to help train her.”

How long had Sigrdrifa known about her powers? Since the first time they met?

The baby woke and moved in her. She placed a hand on her belly and stroked it. Sigrdrifa followed her movement with an attentive gaze.

“Yes, Rennaugh, I do. I have lived long enough to know the signs of force sensitivity. You practically radiate with it, my dear.”

Rennaugh’s heart pounded.

“These girls, like you, attract the force in ways that goes beyond what I and the sisters can comprehend. You are mages, but different still from spell casters such as the students of Aretuza or Ban Ard. Some would call you witches, or crones.”

She returned to her desk.

“The attitude to magic wielders has always been harsh on the islands,” Sigrdrifa continued, “more so than on the continent. It is related to this sisterhood you speak of. I regret to tell you we priestesses know not much of them. They existed a long time ago, their reign faltered and died. It is believed they were used as a bad example of what happens when sorceresses gain too much power. They fell into oblivion, and we are the only ones who keep the tomes on their legend, although some have been stolen and scattered to the winds.”

“Is it true, modron? Did the last norna of the sisterhood destroy an entire village?”

“So goes the legend. Her daughter fell in love with a man from the village and eloped with him. They were victims of bandits. The norna falsely believed the villagers killed her daughter and acted in a fit of desperate anger. The islanders turned to the brotherhood and obliterated the sisterhood.”

Rennaugh stood with shoulders squared and jaw clenched.

“I do not want part of such a legend, modron.”

The high priestess walked to her desk and rounded it.

“No one is asking you to. But you must agree the continued suspicion against sorceresses does more harm than good?

She grasped the leather of the back of her chair.

“Listen to me, Rennaugh. The attitude towards magic softened on Skellige through the years after the disappearance of the Dathmori. For example, Yennefer of Vengerberg was once the lover of Crach and Craite, Cerys and Hjalmar’s father.”

Rennaugh’s eyebrows shot in the air.

Sigdrifa chuckled.

“Yes. Then Thanedd happened, and the rise of the lodge of sorceresses, the failed attempt at creating a nation ruled by magic. The Wild Hunt appeared on the islands, and Yennefer returned to steal the mask of Ouroboros from the druids. She killed the garden in her search for Cirilla. The spark of acrimony against magic, especially female mages, lit again on the islands.”

Sigrdrifa sat on her chair.

“At least after Cirilla fought the White Frost and saved us all, I hoped the sentiment against magic would thaw. It didn’t, not enough. When the force sensitive children appeared, Queen Cerys reached an agreement with the druids to send them away to the continent, for their own safety.”

The High priestess’ eyes gleamed with tears, but her expression hardened.

“One of the ships carrying two of the girls sank, without explanation. All aboard died. The other ship reached its destination, but what happened to the girl from there is unclear. I fear for these children’s lives. Please, Rennaugh, help me care for them. Come back after you’ve had your baby. If there are more girls like Astrid, we need to find them before the druids do.”

Rennaugh stared at Sigrdrifa and swallowed a hard lump in her throat.

“I will.”

 

*

 

A few weeks after Midäete, when the pink lupins bloomed and the wild strawberries ripened on the sides of the road to Larvik, Rennaugh gave birth to a daughter.

The pregnancy prolonged, not an uncommon happening for women expecting their first child, Regis explained. The healing she performed after Walpurgis could also be the reason for the delay.

The festivities of Midäete passed. Regis urged Rennaugh to pay attention to any sign of the baby behaving unusually. If the labour didn’t start on its own soon, he would give her a potion to induce it.

One afternoon she told the vampires she wished to call for Triss. The sorceress arrived a few days later. They embraced, Rennaugh bleary-eyed with relief to see her friend. Triss blinked at the vanished scar on Rennaugh’s face but didn’t discuss it with her at the time. She reckoned Rennaugh had given in to an impulse of vanity and healed the scar on her own volition.

Regis consulted Triss about the inductive medicine. Together, they prepared the potion that encouraged contractions of the uterus and gave it to Rennaugh the same night.

The first waves of dull pain rolled steadily inside her, wavered, and returned with renewed force. Regis prepared her more jugs of the potion. Dettlaff gave her a bottle of hot water covered in rabbit fur to place against her abdomen. It helped take the sharp edges of the pain.

It continued all night, back and forth like the flowing and ebbing of tide. Rennaugh got a few hours of sleep against Dettlaff’s shoulder. All and all, she drank five vials of the potion before the contractions worked through her body on their own.

Around sunrise, the pain grew searing enough for the hot bottle to be of little help. Regis replaced the muscle contracting potion with a light painkiller; anything stronger might cause the process to a halt. Triss reminded Rennaugh to breathe, lest she panicked and worsened the pain. During the pauses from the intensified cramps, Rennaugh ate a little, drank, smiled.

By noon, the pain seared in such a rough pace it granted her little pause. The sharp agony turned her consciousness inwards – she hardly took notice if her companions spoke to her during a contraction. When a particularly strong labour pain volleyed through her, she gasped and fought an absurd impulse to run, as if sprinting out of the room would allow her to escape the pain. Stretched to the limit of her capacity, she groaned when Triss told her the process was likely go on for many more hours.

“Breathe, Rennaugh.”

By late afternoon, she lost control and let forth wails of agony. She dug her nails into Dettlaff’s arms.

 

*

 

Dettlaff fought many impulses to act; to hold her, to make sure she drank, to ask Regis for the hundredth time if everything was as it should, to pull the sorceress out and pin her to the wall, demand she do something more to stop Rennaugh’s pain, to run out and rake an entire forest down…

As the labour process progressed and his mate screamed and gritted her teeth in pain, he let go of all questions of what to do and stayed beside her. As she gradually lost control, his head cooled in response.

She didn’t need him to succumb to worry or fear. She needed him.

 

*

 

The amniotic sack didn’t break on its own, which is why Regis pierced it mechanically. A slow trickle of water ran down Rennaugh’s legs. He suspected she didn’t have enough fluid; this proved him right. He had made the correct decision to induce the labor process.

The contractions went on for a few hours more, when they stopped. Moaning, her eyes glossy from the pain and her hair plastered against her forehead, Rennaugh lifted a surprised gaze to Regis. He shook his head.

“I’ve seen this happen before,” Triss said. “It’s a short pause, before it all starts for real. It’s not long now. Breathe,” she reminded her.

Rennaugh’s body flung forward by a labour pain so powerful it pushed the air out of her lungs. Regis ushered her onto the table, on her back. All thoughts flew from her mind. She was only there, in the pain, gulping for air when given short respite. Her body took control. She couldn’t steer the process, only give in to the tidal waves of bone-shattering pain that rippled through her as the child descended and slid back, descended and slid back, slowly worked its way towards being born.

The pain strained so monumentally, a maelstrom of delirium sneaked into Rennaugh’s mind. A comforting void called in the back of her head, offering respite and rest. She refused. She would not to hide from this, she wished to experience the birth of her child although it violently split her body in two. But the feeling of suffocation became overwhelming, she needed something to hold on to…

A large hand enclosed hers.

“I’m here.”

His voice forced her mind back to the surface again. She took a gulp of air, pulled him towards her, grasped his tunic and clung to his arms. Her forehead against his shoulder, she pushed down with all the muscle power she had left. The wail that left her throat was near inhuman.

“That’s right Rennaugh, push down,” Triss encouraged between her legs.

Rennaugh gasped for air. She contracted all her muscles in her abdomen in one last push. The baby slid out of her.

All agony disappeared. Only a low, murmuring memory of pain remained in her exhausted body.

She let go of her desperate grasp of Dettlaff. Her ears registered an angry scream from a tiny throat as a slippery, warm little body was placed on her chest.

A short cry burst out of her throat from the feeling of her child against her skin, not a cry of pain this time, but of euphoria. The most intense happiness filled her, like a white light, reminiscent of that night in the crypt, blinded by the crystals.

She peeked down at the little body on top of her, her child, with a tuft of dark hair on her head.

Scream, little one, she thought, scream and live, claim your place in this world, just live…

Rennaugh smiled, her whole being filled with gratitude, before she closed her eyes in exhaustion.

 

*

 

Dettlaff carefully opened the door to the bedroom. The baby didn’t scream anymore but slept, tired from the immense effort of having been born. Triss had cleaned her, wrapped her in a downy cloth and placed her in the cradle.

Although a little swollen around her eyes, the baby was not fat; her arms and legs stretched long and slim inside the cover. Her miniscule head was covered in black, silky hair, still sleek from the fluids in which she’d grown.

Trembling, he picked her up. His large hands easily engulfed the tiny body.

The child let out a pitiful little squeak, and a sigh. The sound caused an eruption of tenderness to flow through him. Everything around him diminished and grew distant; the voices from the other room, the crackling of the fireplace, the wind that whistled through the trees outside and bent their trunks to creak and groan. His senses concentrated to become more acute.

“Little starling,” he whispered.

Another wave of warmth flowed through him and enclosed his heart in a velvety wrapping. He was overcome with bright amazement – that such a miniscule creature could exist and be his.

He held the weight of the perfect little bundle of life in his arms, overcome by his responsibility for her. He wanted to protect her from all evil.

Involuntarily, Dettlaff’s mind flooded with images of the dangers of the world, hazards from which he would be unable to protect her from. He remembered a small boy, perhaps four or five years old, handing him an apple in the streets of Rivia. Only a few weeks later, he found the body of that same boy, cut into pieces together with other children, and women…

A sting of fear spread through his veins.

He jolted back to reality, heart hammering in his chest. An intense smell of blood intruded his senses.

He carefully placed the baby back into the cradle. She made another squeak from the loss of closeness but didn’t wake.

Hastily, he stepped into the room where Rennaugh lay and froze on the spot.

Blood. So much blood. Cold wires of fear ensnared his heart.

“Regis?”

The grey-haired vampire stood near the table where Triss desperately tried to stop the flow of blood from Rennaugh.

“Dettlaff, I think you’d better get outside.”

“What is wrong?” his deep voice shook the air. He sensed her slip further into unconsciousness.

“It’s the placenta,” Triss answered. “It wasn’t intact when it left the uterus. It’s causing her to bleed profusely. We need to get it out, every bit of it, or her blood loss will be too great.”

The nostrils of the other vampire flared from worry, face pale from the overwhelming smell of blood.

Dettlaff hastily walked to where Rennaugh lay, held her shoulders and gently shook her. Triss stepped aside to let Regis meticulously get to work between Rennaugh’s legs with a type of instrument Dettlaff didn’t wish to know the name of.

“Renn, don’t let go. I can still feel you. Do _not_ let go.”

Her closed eyelids fluttered, the sweat on her forehead glistened from the light of the open fire. Her lips parted, purple shadows lured under her closed eyes. In desperation, he bent down to kiss her, clumsily clashing his teeth against hers. The flickering presence of her mind slipped further.

“No!” he growled. His head spun from all the blood, but his worry hindered all transformation.

Regis knitted his eyebrows in concentration. Dettlaff turned his burning eyes to him.

“Am I cursed, Regis?” he growled, “is it my fate to kill every woman I love?”

The desperate discourse surprised both Triss and Regis.

“This is not on you! This is the risk any pregnant woman faces. Childbirth is a dangerous process because it’s unpredictable!” Triss tried to lay a hand on his arm, but he recoiled in desperation.

Regis’s ivory forehead glistened the lights of the lantern and the scattered candles in the room. His voice stern, he demanded his brother to calm down.

“Concentrate, Dettlaff. Continue talking to her. I know she can hear you.”

Dettlaff took hold of her cool, damp hand. He bent down to place his face to let their foreheads touch. Hers plastered sweaty against his. He closed his eyes as he spoke.

“Stay with me, Renn. Before I met you, I hated this world, hated myself. Not anymore. I don’t regret the awful events in these past years because they led me to meet you. I’m so glad I did. Please don’t leave me, don’t leave _her_. I can’t stand this world without you.”

Triss stared at him with a wide-eyed expression of surprised tenderness.

 

*

 

Regis’ hands trembled. His mind grew hazy from the intense smell of blood. He closed his eyes to concentrate – he needed to get this right. Only one more try with his instrument. He reopened his eyes.

 

*

 

Rennaugh’s mind sunk under the waters of a still pond. Softly cradled by its smooth currents, she lay enwrapped in is buoyant warmth. She experienced no pain, no exhaustion, only rapture, and elation.

A voice, so familiar to her ears, sounded through the waters.

“Rennaugh, wake up.”

“Father?”

A pair of smiling eyes. A hay-colored beard. The smell of sweet gale.

“You need to wake up, my darling.”

Her heart swam over with emotion. He looked just like she remembered him.

“I want to stay here, father. With you.”

“I know, sweetheart. But she needs you. He needs you. Wake up.”

Rennaugh opened her eyes and gazed into green, hazy water. She stretched her hands to swim, but she didn’t know how, she was drowning…

Another voice, distant, called for her. She followed it and pushed her arms towards the surface. Her surroundings became clearer, his voice nearer, until she reached the surface–

\- and breached it.

She inhaled a large gulp of oxygen, chest heaving in a panic. He growled her name, once, twice. Her eyelids fluttered, so weak, so tired… Strong hands held her arms, a familiar scent reached her, his skin.

Another smell broke through it; blood.

“Where is she?” she croaked, her eyes welling up with tears, “is she alright?”

Pale blue eyes softened at her speech. Dettlaff took a shuddering inhale of air.

“Yes, she is. She is in the other room.” His tight grip on her arms loosened, and he managed to softly caress her cheek with his fingers, “She is beautiful.”

Triss took a few steps back and sat down, exhausted and pale. Regis left through the kitchen door.

Rennaugh let out a mix of a whimper and laughter and embraced her mate.

“Does she look like a Nannah?”

He exhaled through his nose and smiled.

Her head spun. She soon laid back and closed her eyes.

He called her name once more, worryingly. She reopened her eyes and motioned to make him know she was alright, only exhausted.

“Please, bring her to me.”

 

*

 

Regis didn’t stay to see Rennaugh’s second encounter with her daughter. He leaned against the walls of the cabin and inhaled deeply until his head stopped spinning.

To prevent transformation when encountering bleeding humans, Regis had found it helped to think of the anatomy of the human body and of the medicinal property of blood in contrast to its properties as nourishment.

The cardiovascular system, he recited in his mind and breathed slowly, transports the necessary nutrients, oxygen and hormones for the human body to survive, through the chambers of the heart, the veins and the arteries, the arterioles and capillaries, the sprawling blood vessels - the tree of life indeed.

Regis had always wished to closer examine a human placenta. The sight of this one, so damaged, enticed no interest in him. It only caused his heart to ache.

He thanked whatever deity responsible for Rennaugh and the child being alive. He was not sure what Dettlaff would have done had they not survived.

He went to fetch a bucket of water and soap. They would need a lot of boiling water to clean the floors from the blood.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happening in this chapter: Rennaugh gives birth to a daughter, Nannah, but nearly dies from haemorrhage. Regis, Dettlaff and Triss saves her with a joint effort.
> 
> A remainder: the general animosity against mages on Skellige in this fic is non-canonical. 
> 
> The scene where Rennaugh meets her father is inspired by a scene in the movie Braveheart where William Wallace meets his dead wife in a dream.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The dreams,” he said, “you’ve had them too?”

 

Chapter warning: in the end of this chapter, there is a quarrel between the couple, where one of them is not so gentle towards the other. There is no abuse.

 --- 

Immobile from having lost so much blood, Rennaugh spent the first days after the birth of her daughter in bed. Back in Cintra, her mother had left her newborns to take up employment merely days after their birth. In contrast, Rennaugh was pampered and spoilt by her friend, and by two men who never complained about losing sleep or considered it a woman’s work to take care of a baby.

One night, she walked up to change the cloth used to soak the bleeding. As she tiptoed out to the kitchen, she found Dettlaff on the swab sofa, holding Nannah against his chest, eyes closed. The rhythm of his breath lulled the child asleep.

She’d never seen him so at peace.

After a week, Rennaugh regained enough health to get out of bed, surprised by how fast she healed. After four weeks, the bleedings stopped.

She struggled to feed Nannah at first. On the third day after the birth, Rennaugh’s breasts swelled to become sore and painful. She drank the pain reducer Triss prepared for her while trying to feed the baby. One morning, she woke with one breast hard and red. Ashamed of crying, she gritted her teeth when the baby painfully latched on to suckle. Triss assured her continuous feeding was the best remedy to engorgement.

After three weeks of painful attempts at feeding Nannah, where Rennaugh nearly gave up, she and the baby found the right rhythm. Nannah didn’t fuss and gulp at her breast anymore, and the painful engorgements stopped. Nannah soon fattened enough to show double chins when she smiled. She slept better at nights, and Rennaugh enjoyed their new situation without pain.

Dettlaff walked into their bedroom one morning where Rennaugh lay on her side, feeding the baby. Nannah made little squeaky sighs as she suckled. Rennaugh smiled tenderly and stroked the baby’s little dark head.

Struck by the most intense sensation of time stopping, his whole being went numb at the scene. If anyone in hundreds of years would ask him what he remembered most dearly in life, it would be this. The thought hit him like a fist in the gut, for one day, all this would be a long time ago; she would be gone, and he forced to live on in this cursed eternity.

Six weeks after the birth of Nannah, Dettlaff made sure the baby slept tight in her cradle before turning to Rennaugh. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply. He pulled her close to press every contour of her against him.

He interrupted their kiss and drew in breath through his teeth when her hand sneaked down to palm his growing erection.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she breathed. The husky note in her voice sent a wave of heat through him.

“Renn, you…”

“Please,” she whispered, “don’t start treating me as if I were made of glass. I’ll go mad.”

Her eyes gleamed, pupils large from want.

He stroked her back. He’d longed for this but didn’t wish to push it. The image of her bleeding on the table re-entered his mind, but he quickly released it when she nibbled his pulse point.

He opened his mouth repeat his question, but she silenced him with another searing kiss.

He made her come with his fingers and mouth, keeping her gaze in his as she came undone, convulsing. He didn’t tell her, but now that she was out of danger, the faint, lingering smell of blood from her only served to strengthen his lust.

She mounted him, slowly taking him in, a knot between her eyebrows that told him it hurt. He lay still, struggling not to buck into her heat as he grasped her hips. She felt as good as before, as she always did.

He worryingly searched for her gaze. Her face relaxed as she opened her eyes and seated onto his lap. He let her take the lead and decide their rhythm.

Carefully, she rolled her hips, humming. Each movement sent sparks of lust up his spine. He reveled in the signs of her arousal, her lips; red and swollen, the pink blush that spread on her chest, her slick heat enveloping him. He didn’t dare touch her breasts should it hurt, but he lavished in the sight of them before him, fuller than before. She leaned forward to let him reach them with his mouth.

“You feel so good, Renn,” he groaned against her soft skin, “you are so beautiful.”

She smiled in reply but tensed with a gasp when he carefully thrust in sync with her movements. He stilled, cursing internally in worry, but she nodded and grasped his shoulders. A bead of sweat rolled down her temple.

All that mattered was to be close, to still have her; finishing was mere afterthought. Still, he let out a helpless sound as her firm movements skyrocketed his arousal. She cupped his face with her hand.

“Shh, I’ve got you, my love,” she whispered.

He sat up to search her mouth with his as he let the release flow though his body in blissful, blinding waves.  

He didn’t notice the tears that streaked his face until after they let go of their grasp of each other.

 

*

 

Triss stayed in the cabin on Hindarsfjall for two weeks after the birth of the little girl, before her duties in Kovir called.

The vertigo from the sight of Rennaugh so drained of blood held its grasp on her for days. But if the vampires could hold their minds together in the situation, she thought, so could she. Shivers of fear ran through Triss during the hours of little Nannah’s birth, at the thought of Regis or Dettlaff breaking out into their monstrous form. In the back of her mind, she murmured an offensive spell should it be needed.

Triss didn’t know what vampire children looked like. She inspected the infant and sought for signs of her vampiric origin. Absurdly, she feared Rennaugh would give birth to something resembling a bat.

Nannah seemed like any other baby - a little slim and long to her features, perhaps, but perfectly normal. She was adorable, with her blue eyes and dark, downy hair - Dettlaff’s colors. The little girl adapted to her new world well. She didn’t scream much, mostly ate and slept and made little baby sounds. On the eighth day after her birth, Triss caught a smile in Nannah’s little visage – but it couldn’t be. It had to be gas, Triss thought.

Her fear of the vampires ebbed during her stay after the birth of Nannah. Dettlaff handled his daughter like she was the last drop of water. It filled Triss with awe. She didn’t know his kind could display such tenderness.

After the first days, white flakes came off Nannah’s skin. Dettlaff worryingly came to Triss for advice. She explained the baby shed the fat that protected her against the amniotic fluid, and that it was completely normal.

She laughed at his worried expression when the small remnant of the umbilical cord on Nannahs belly fell off at two weeks old.

The day before Triss left Hindarsfjall, she stepped down the ladder and walked into the kitchen of the cabin. Rennaugh slept in the bedroom and Dettlaff was out to run errands in Larvik. Triss found Regis holding the girl, gazing down on the bundle in his hands with an expression of amazement, melancholy and – such hunger –

Triss pulled the baby from his arms, heart pounding in her throat and the hair on her neck prickling. Little Nannah awoke with a whine. Regis let go with an expression of surprise and pain.

“Please, don’t think...” he rasped, “I would never hurt her.”

For the first time, Triss found Rennaugh to be a fool to live with a child among vampires. She contemplated taking her and the baby away from Hindarsfjall and the cabin. Triss never had the heart to actually pry Rennaugh from her home.

Triss never told Rennaugh about the scene in the kitchen. She assured Triss she could go, that Regis would oversee her recovery.

Geralt found Regis to be the very image of humanism. Triss gave Regis the chance to deserve the trust others placed on him.

 

*

 

Rennaugh would later remember the fleeting first year with baby Nannah as the happiest time in her life.

She revelled in – not so much loving the child; that she did – but _falling_ in love with her, an infatuation that wrapped her mind in a blissful cocoon. She worshipped her daughter; relished in her little sounds and gestures, kissed her all over, stroked her little silken head.

Nannah pushed Rennaugh into new emotional landscapes, where it was beautiful to be.

She often sat with Nannah on a folded blanket over her lap and made faces until the baby squeaked of joy. She repeated small, silly exclamations whenever Dettlaff or Regis were near; _She came to us! Can you believe it? How did we get to be so lucky?_

They smiled in agreement.

Each night Rennaugh fell asleep longing to wake up so she could spend more time with her baby. Every morning, Nanna smiled and babbled incoherent, happy sounds, drooling a wet patch on her chest.

She’s joy incarnate, Rennaugh thought.

Rennaugh sometimes cried, frivolous tears of happiness and amazement and sleep deprivation, snivelling like a fool. Regis patted her shoulder and assured her it related to the hormones.

She brought Nannah everywhere, tucked to her chest by a cloth wrapped around her body like a harness. The little girl had a mild temper, open and curious, mostly content as long as she took part in whatever her family members did. Dettlaff was equally reluctant to let Nannah out of his grasp. Regis asked with a crooked smile how they expected Nannah to learn how to walk if she never got to touch the ground?

When Nannah whined from either stomach ache or from being tired, she liked to be held face down on Dettlaff’s arm, her little head cradled in his large hand. There she lay, content like a little monkey resting on a tree trunk. When nights fell, she accepted no other way to fall asleep but in his arms, or on his chest.

Rennaugh took Nannah to meet her extended family in Larvik. Brigitte flinched at the sight of Rennaugh’s face but made no comment. Lars held little Nannah and tickled her with his beard. Eigil had recently moved to his own house, about to marry a girl from Lofoten, but he came by his father’s house to greet the little girl.

Before she left the Lars’, Rennaugh stopped in front of the small mirror in their hallway. Peeking out of the cloth that held Nanna against Rennaugh’s chest, the baby’s little dark head reflected in the mirror.

Relief travelled through Rennaugh’s body in waves.

And yet underneath - a sting of disappointment.

Nannah turned her little neck and discovered her own reflection. She laughed, a bubbly sound from her stomach, her first, clearly discernible laugh. It sounded like heaven to Rennaugh.

 

*

 

“No, you mustn’t ‘command’ the water, Astrid. You simply have to encourage it.”

Rennaugh rotated her hand to lift the liquid inside the glass on the oak table in the prayer room of the temple. Little Astrid gaped in stupefaction at the bauble of water that hung in the air.

“Think of how you do when you ride a horse. It is stronger, and more powerful than you. Still it obeys you. Why, tell me?”

“Because… because otherwise it wouldn’t get any hay to eat!”

Rennaugh smiled and released the water bubble that slid back into the glass with a wet sound.

“The horse cannot make such connections, Astrid. It obeys, not because you force it, but because you befriend it. To ride is to cooperate with the horse, to lead it, sure, but never to compel it. It’s the same with the force.”

As the child continued to practise, Rennaugh reminisced on a conversation she’d had with Brigitte the other day. Her uncle’s wife commented on the disappearance of her scar and accused her of using witchcraft to remove it. She wasn’t wrong, but instead of directing the blame on Rennaugh, Brigitte accused Triss, adamant that Rennaugh should never let the sorceress into her home again.

Rennaugh told Brigitte, with sorrow in her heart, that Triss was her dearest friend, and that she would always be welcome in her home. But she didn’t dare to confess Triss had nothing to do with the removal of her scar.

Shame tugged at her chest. She didn’t wish to jeopardize the relationship to her father’s family, and in extension, risk exposure to the whole island. Because of it, she indirectly slandered Triss for a deed she hadn’t committed.

Shivering, she gazed out of the window. From the position of the sun shining faintly behind the veils of the winter sky, she had been in the temple for over an hour. She needed to get back to Nannah at home with the vampires, to feed her soon.

“I think I understand!” the girl beamed at her.

Rennaugh smiled and reached for her jacket and cape. March approached, and in a few weeks, the first crocuses would penetrate the soil. Outside, the snow still lay thick on the ground.

She made sure one of the priestesses took care of Astrid before she left. As she walked towards the gates, she passed the great hall. To her surprise, she found Bran in front of the regal organ, playing a soft tune.

He had returned.

Rennaugh wavered, struggling with indecision, until she made up her mind and headed towards him.

“Bran?”

He looked up from his instrument in surprise.

“Oh, it’s you! Rennaugh, right? Did you have your baby? Congratulations!”

A blush spread on both their faces at his poor attempt at feigning he hardly recognized her.

“Bran, I…” She didn’t know how to say it, that she had dreamt of him, how those dreams told her of his importance to the islands, an importance she didn’t understand. It all seemed like folly…

“I know. I – I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to speak to you. Please, sit with me, and we can pretend to talk about music.”

She sat down next to him on the rectangular stool, light-headed from relief to know he shared her thoughts.

He let his fingers softly tap the keys of the organ again in a tune she didn’t recognize.

“The dreams,” he said, “you’ve had them too?”

She nodded.

“They mean something.”

“But what?”

He shook his head, still playing the instrument. His hands trembled.

Rennaugh had an impulse.

“Bran,” she whispered after she’d made sure they were alone again, “have you ever heard of a sisterhood of sorceresses that lived on these islands long ago?”

“The Dathmori? Yes.”

She flinched and stared at him. He raised his eyebrows at her expression.

“All druids learn of the sisterhood. They were defeated by the brotherhood of mages that founded the druidic order of Skellige. How do you know of them?”

“It’s a long story… Tell me; is there any truth to the legend?”

“I’m not sure. It was long used as precaution against letting magic reign. Like the story of the women with fox tails, who drags children into the depths of the lake, to precaution children from playing too close to the waters.”

“That story is true. If you disturb the water sprites, they may drown you.”

“All I know is the sisterhood was overthrown, with the help of an animal. Their powers were interrupted by being exposed to a lizard.”

Rennaugh exhaled sharply. He knew of the animals that hindered her magic.

“How do you know this?”

He continued to play, his eyes still placed on his fingers that deftly danced over the keys.

“Because we still guard them. We breed the lizards should the Dathmori ever rise again.”

He darted a worried gaze to her.

“Don’t tell anyone about this, Rennaugh. It’s a druidic secret. If you ask me, the Dathmori is just another legend that has arisen from the fear of women holding power.”

She nodded, heart still racing.

His voice softened.

“I’m writing on a new song. Would you like to hear it?”

She smiled and nodded at the unarming request.

“Yes, but then I have to go. Does it have a name?”

He blushed.

“No, not yet. But it is composed for the regal.”

He played a soft, near meditative melody. She enjoyed the tune and marvelled at how this young druid made any instrument put in his hands come to its right.

He sang in his melodic voice, a song of the mystery of the modron’s love.

Preluded by a short instrumental pause, Bran closed his eyes as he sung the second verse.

Rennaugh smiled at the beauty of the song. On a whim, she supported him with her own voice as she recognized the repetition of the first verse. He opened his eyes, astonished, but didn’t stop. She repeated the procedure in the second verse, letting him sing the first line of the verse, supporting him in every other.

When he finished the tune, he rested his gaze on her with an expression of awe she wasn’t prepared for. He lifted his hands from the keys of the regal and let his fingers outline the faint scar on her cheek.

“Elaine, beanna,” he whispered.

Blood singing in her ears, she stood up. Although never taught to speak nor read Elder Speech, she understood the meaning of his words. She left in hurried steps, his touch a trail of fire on her skin.

Bran stood to follow her.

“Rennaugh!”

When she reached the top of the stairs to exit the gates, he grabbed her wrist and turned her to him. His eyes pleaded.

“Please, I didn’t mean it like that! Your singing if beautiful, not you!”

He turned crimson and rolled eyes at his clumsy words,

“No, I don’t mean – you’re lovely, but…”

Despite the cool air whisking from the open gates, her face heated with embarrassment. He held her arms in his hands, standing so close his breath whisked in her face.

“Rennaugh – the dreams. I know what they mean. I feel the calling in you. I’ve felt it in myself.”

He peered around and returned to her with burning amber eyes.

“I believe you and I are meant to make a new order, that wasn’t so bound to these old, conservative borders between men and women. We could unite the priestesses and druids to a single congregation in favour of the goddess! Don’t you see? We were meant to do this, I have seen it…”

He still whispered, but in agitation, like a hiss. The faint, varm smell of his clothes overwhelmed her.

Her heart sank in her chest. She didn’t know what she had wanted from speaking to him, but this – it was so much.

“Do you want power?”

“No! I want balance! Don’t you see?”

Staring into his eyes, she did. Bran was right; the orders of the priestesses and the druids needed reform, that the old ways were wrong, like irregular pieces in a puzzle forced to fit the whole picture. He could bring balance, and she? What was her role in this?

“We should speak to Sigrdrifa.”

“Yes - maybe. I’m not sure she’ll understand. I know the Hierophant wouldn’t.”

Her heart pounded in her chest. She wished to go home, back to Nannah and the life she’d created, away from this temple that both pulled at her, making it impossible to stay away, and at the same time ensnared her.

But she couldn’t make Bran symbol of everything that tore her apart. She squeezed his arms and gazed up in his eyes to let him know she wasn’t angry. He exhaled with a relieved smile at her expression.

“Forgive me for acting strangely. I’ve been very alone with these visions, these dreams…”

“You’re not alone.”

He pressed her against him in an impulsive embrace. The feathers from his mantle tickled her face. She was just about to break loose from his arms when a dark voice called her name.

 

*

 

Dettlaff waited outside the temple to join Rennaugh after her session with Astrid. She didn’t wish to be away from Nannah for too long.

That’s what he told himself, at least, as he earlier directed his energies to the temple to follow her.

The sight of her and the young druid lit a fuse in Dettlaff’s mind. A stream of hot fury flushed his veins. He struggled not to swiftly transform and push his claws into the chest of the feather-mantled man.

His eyes must have burned with an intensity of lightning; the druid recoiled and stepped back into the temple.

Rennaugh ran down the stairs. He made a motion to follow the druid, but she stopped him. He directed his anger to her instead, grabbed her by the arms and pressed her against the stone walls of the garden. She gasped.

A sliver of regret cut through his rage. He feared he’d hurt her and released his iron grip of her arms. The agitation built up like a pressure between them.

”You will not – you are mine!” he growled.

The muscles in her jaw tensed.

“No. Enough.”

Her face flushed with anger.

“I belong _with_ you. I made a vow. But I do not belong _to_ you!”

Her words came out between gritted teeth. Their breaths climbed the cool air in whiffs of smoke.

“I’m with you because I choose to, Dettlaff! Not because you control me!” She took a shuddering breath to calm down.

Her demeanour softened.

“I don’t plan on leaving you. But everyone who loves is vulnerable. You may lose others, they may choose not to be with you anymore, you need to accept that, or you’ll –”

She took a step towards him. Her words seeped into his mind, but in his ire, he pushed them away. He snarled at her.

“You will _never_ deceive me.”

“I wouldn’t!” She stopped, her hands trembled by her sides. The air crackled from her contained fury. She flexed her fingers to shake off the energy.

“It’s true, Bran admits he finds me beautiful.” She blushed. “But it doesn’t mean I wish be with him! He’s entitled to that opinion, Dettlaff! Don’t you think I see how the women in Larvik look at you? How they hide their smiles under their hands? It doesn’t mean I doubt your fidelity!”

She sighed, her shoulders sloping.

“When the lesser vampires left you, do you know what I felt? I was relieved.”

He winched. Relieved – over something that hurt him so?

“I wanted to possess you! To be your only one. It was wrong. I had no right.”

She took another step.

“I know you’ve been hurt, Dettlaff. That you’ve been lied to. But tell me, what would you do? If I were to be with another man – what would you do?”

He stiffened his jaw and paced in front of her, fists opening and clenching.

Images of Syanna flashed in his mind, from the night in Dun Tynne, when he became aware of her deceit. Rather than being imprisoned, she had seduced the proprietor of the fortress and played out her scheme. Later, Regis told him of how she attempted to seduce Geralt to gain his sympathy.

It all dawned on him. How ugly she was, how manipulative, how little she cared. The extent to his own naïveté.

He never distinguished what burned strongest; his pain, his rage, or his shame.

Rennaugh followed him with her gaze as he paced.

“Why do you wish me to be with you?” She screamed. A few birds lifted from a tree with flapping wings, startled. “Why, tell me! is it because I love you? Or is it because I should be afraid that if I left, you would kill me?”

His mind halted to a stop. The wrongness of her words hit his guts like the pommel of a sword.

No, that’s not what he wanted.

He stopped and gazed on the face he loved - not Syanna, but Renn, his mate, the mother of his child. The weight of his ring tugged at his finger. His expression softened from remorse.

But she, angered, interpreted his silence as acquiescence to her question and continued her verbal assault.

“This is why Syanna left you without a word, Dettlaff! She knew you wouldn’t take no for an answer!”

She put her hand on her mouth, eyes wide. It was a blow below the belt.

He stopped breathing. Rage filled his veins again, coursing heat. His skin prickled from near transformation.

At first, the unbearable injustice of her words filled his mind. She’d never disappointed him so.

Icy regret replaced his rage.

He wouldn’t have accepted Syanna’s wish to leave. She belonged to him, she was _his_ … what other option had he given her than to leave unnoticed? He closed his eyes, the chill of realization causing his skin to break out in goose bumps. Blinding shame nauseated him. He fought the desire to deny her words.

He couldn’t. What did his jealousy, his possessiveness ever achieve, besides pushing others away, or worse, bound them to him through fear?

He’d lost so much. At least the lesser vampires bade him goodbye.

He felt her close by her scent, by the whisk of her breath on his collar. She whispered his name. He embraced her.

“I want you to be with me because of the bond we share,” he whispered into her hair. “Not because you are afraid.”

They held each other. The warmth of her body seeped into his.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said, “but this possessiveness must stop.”

Gently, she broke loose for him.

“It’s you who are afraid. I deserve your trust, but you still don’t trust yourself. But I know you would never hurt me. Not even in your most agitated state. You wouldn’t.”

Dettlaff exhaled in pain. When he still knew Syanna as Rhenawedd, he never believed he’d hurt her. Never. He swore he’d kill anyone who ever laid a finger on her.

Then came that night in the ruins of Tesham Mutna, his being erased the way tidal waves erase writing in sand, left to a shell of nothing but cold rage and suffering. He let his mist enclose her, determined to take her life for making him a murderer, for lying… for not loving him.

“I don’t know,” he whispered.

She stared into his eyes with a frown.

“Well I do.”

They rode the way home to the cabin, sitting close in silence on the sleigh.

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could write chapters on breast feeding problems and how painful they can be, but I doubt that would interest anyone! If you are a person struggling to breastfeed your baby, or if your partner is, please know that you can get help, and that switching to bottle feeding does NOT make you a lesser parent.
> 
> When writing Regis for this fic, I was inspired by [this excerpt](https://imgur.com/AdG7807) from his diary found in the crypt at the Mère Lachaiselongue cemetery. The text inspired a lot of the themes in this fic overall.
> 
> “To be pushed into an emotional landscape, where it is beautiful to be” is taken from my favourite love song – [Jóga](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BBju9Sdh94k) by Björk.
> 
> I was inspired by another song when writing the scene with Rennaugh and Bran – [In My Veins](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cnujIzxE8Mk) by 1921 (also a reference for how I imagine their voices to sound).
> 
> I needed this conversation on jealousy between the pair. I’ve thought a lot about what part Dettlaff had in his and Syanna’s relationship unfolding the way it did. I refuse to see him simply as a victim of her scheming, although I found her actions to be cruel. I don’t wish to romanticize abuse and/or possessive behaviour. To me, trust fertilizes romance, not jealousy.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did you yell for nothing?”
> 
> “No Regis, there was blood, but I closed it!”
> 
> His grip on her arm tightened.
> 
> “Closed it, how?”

As soon as Nannah learned how to walk, she followed the men in her family like a wobbly shadow, clutching the stuffed toy rabbit in her hand. Dettlaff often picked her up to prevent her from the dangers of stinging nettle and thorny bushes. The little girl protested her father’s overly attentive behaviour and reproached him,

“Nannah walk!”

Regis pointed out butterflies, beetles, spiders and dragonflies, and told Nannah their names. Together, they riffled through the pages of Regis’ books on flora and fauna, careful not to break the delicate papers.

Where ever the girl went, Hogni and Tovni stealed beside her. Each night, they fell asleep together in the little bed Dettlaff had made, both cats enclosing the child like a furry sandwich. Gullfaxi, normally of a skittish nature despite his size, acted calm like a palfrey whenever she sat on him.

Rennaugh loved Nannah’s attachment to the men and animals in her family, but simultaneously regretted not being able to have her close all the time. The little girl took small, independent steps out into the world and Rennaugh absurdly wished she could still have Nannah inside her, so that they may never be apart.

She mourned when Nannah, one night after her first birthday, turned her face away from her breast, no longer wanting to feed. The child preferred the thick gruel or porridge they made her from different grains mixed with cream or milk.

One day, Rennaugh took Nannah to the temple. The priestesses fussed over the girl and took turns to hold her. Sigrdrifa smiled from a distance with an inscrutable expression. The little girl waddled to the base of the statue of Freya, gazed up at the Goddess’ marble face and exclaimed:

“Ati.”

In his studio, Dettlaff let her use his colors on scraps of paper and cloth. They worked on their individual projects, she usually daubed paint on paper, the chair, her body. Although patient and thorough for a small child, her motoric skills lagged a bit, but Dettlaff never reprimanded her for being clumsy.

During one of their sessions in the workshop, she placed a finger on one of his pencils. A small branch grew out of its tip, from where a delicately rolled up, green leaf sprouted. Nannah giggled. Dettlaff caught her wrist, his eyes burning from stupefaction and fear.

“You mustn’t ever do that again, Nannah! Do you hear me?” he growled.

She gasped. The pencil fell with a clatter to the floor. Sobbing, she yanked her arm from his grasp and ran out of the annex. He later told Rennaugh of the incident, full of remorse.

Rennaugh admired Dettlaff for his patience with Nannah. He never huffed at her or scolded her, or worse; hit her as parents of the island did their children. Nannah sometimes lost her temper in occasional tantrums; fits of rage where there was no talking to her. Dettlaff held her in a firm grip, until her screams and tears stopped, and the anger and shame lost hold of her body.

For every time Nannah succumbed to her anger without any trace of transforming, Dettlaff’s relief grew stronger. He didn’t mind the outbursts of children. Unable to hide their emotions and wishes, their souls were bare. Children lied, no doubt, but about trivial things that never hurt anyone.

He sometimes took Nannah on trips to Larvik and Lofoten to discuss commissions on furniture or restock goods. She sat in front of him on Gullfaxi’s back, smiling and waving at villagers. They smiled back and nodded to her father. People seldom referred to him as ‘the dark outlander,’ or ‘the Nazarian’ anymore, but greeted him as ‘Master van der Eretein’. He once overheard a conversation between two elderly women praising him for his fatherly attentions. A man who cares for his child in such a way cannot be bad, they muttered.

Unprepared for such praise, he was filled with unfamiliar pride.

Reading and talking came easy for Nannah, although she uttered some words delightfully wrong. “Bludderwhy!” she squeaked when blue wings and yellow birmstones fluttered past. She tried to adopt the more sophisticated discourse of Regis and once exclaimed “it’s rather dead!” at the sight of a rabbit carcass, left by a harpy.

At the age of three, she spoke well, and soon picked up the language of the men in her household. She called Dettlaff “apa” and Regis “lautni”. They called her “husivu” – my child.

They never needed to tell Nannah about vampires and humans. She instinctively understood the men in her house were different, like the magpie was different from the crow. Equally instinctively, she never spoke their language in front of the other children in Larvik.

She enjoyed composing little poems about flowers and insects, the weather and the mountains. Her favorite song was Little Red Squirrel – Rennaugh never told her people on the continent sang it to mock the elves of the Scoia’tael:

 

Little red squirrel

in the fir tree

Eating on a cone in peace

When a human he did see

Startled by the sound of feet

He jumped so fast, so quickly

lost his grip of slippery leaves

And hurt his little knee

And the long, bushy tail

 

Nannah often played with the little horses Dettlaff had made for Rennaugh’s sisters. The sight of her daughter holding their withers in her small hands always clenched at Rennaugh’s heart.

One afternoon, a few weeks after Nannah turned three, she entered the kitchen where her family sat and announced she wished to read them a poem. Hogni and Tovni followed her steps and settled by her feet. Her family nodded in encouragement. Nannah’s little face beamed all earnest as she recited her poem:

 

Little cow, dear moo-moo

Tell me honestly;

I need to know, was it you

Who shat on the bumblebee?

 

Rennaugh choked on her tea. Regis threw his head back and let out a heartfelt laughter.

“Marvellous, Nannah! Absolutely stupendous!”

Dettlaff’s snort didn’t compare to the guffaw of Regis, but he grinned wide enough to expose his pointed canine teeth.

Nannah curtsied and skipped outside with the cats in tow.

 

*

 

Rennaugh stirred the ash-like powder into her tea with a heavy heart. It contained the ground mixture of the tiny, bell-flower that prevented child-bearing.

Dettlaff didn’t want them to have more children.

The rational part of her agreed. If they succeeded in bringing up Nannah to independently choose a life for herself, apart from the prophecy, perhaps any other child they bore would be caught in its net? Plus, the potion had a convenient side effect; Rennaugh only bled twice per year.

The less rational part of her longed for another baby so fiercely it dug an aching hole in her.

She downed the potion and directed her thoughts to her harvest of flax, or lin as it was called on the isles.

The year of Nannah’s birth, Rennaugh and Dettlaff, together with Lars and Eigil, dug ditches along the marsh land north of the cabin. The next year, the soil was dry and ready for sowing the flax seeds she had ordered from the continent.

Before her mother and step-father moved their family to Cintra city, they cultured and harvested flax, to prepare the long, soft fibres for weaving linen cloth.

The production of the fibres required arduous, intensive work, from the blossoming of the flowers, blue like the summer sky, to the pulling of the plant, the critical process of retting, and finally the spinning and weaving of the fibres. The production of wool yarn and cloth was faster, and thus preferred by many, especially on Skellige. Wool cloth provided the islanders with the necessary insulation during the cold climate on Skellige, but for items such as ben linen, handkerchiefs, underwear and summer clothes, linen was superior to wool. Also, the seeds produced a healthy oil used to relieve stomach cramps and constipation.

In her third year of harvesting, Rennaugh received enough orders for linen for her to be able to employ Eigil full time plus two women for weaving the fibres into the popular cloth.

When Nannah turned four years old, Rennaugh had had enough of waiting for a sign of life from her sisters. Her training with Astrid neared completion; the girl controlled her powers well, and because of it, Rennaugh spent less time in the temple.

She let that year’s crop of flax in the hands of Eigil and Lars, boarded a ship with her family, and left for the continent.

They spent a few days in Cintra. Clara died the year before, and her son lived in her apartment with his family. Rennaugh, Dettlaff and Nannah journeyed towards Brugge, where her step-father had family. Regis continued to Touissant and Corvo Bianco, and they promised to meet him on the estate in a few weeks’ time to pay a visit to Geralt and Triss. Although Dettlaff didn’t appreciate the prospect of returning to Touissant, he didn’t wish to deny Rennaugh and Nannah the pleasure to visit the Sansretour valley and their friends.

After three weeks of fruitless searching for her mother and sisters in the Brugge countryside, Nannah fell ill. She lost her appetite and showed symptoms of hay fever. No remedy procured by Rennaugh helped. One night, Nannah woke up feverish, cold sweat gathered at her temples. Her raven hair contrasted stark against her pale, little face.

“I want to go home. I miss Hogni and Tovni.”

When the child got worse, they cancelled the pursuit of Rennaugh’s sisters and returned to Skellige.

Nannah recovered as soon as they set foot on Hindarsfjall.

They were greeted by Lars and Eigil, who informed them another natural disaster had struck the islands; since a few weeks back, not a drop of rain fell on the soil, threatening the year’s crop of grain and oats. A forest fire erupted near Larvik and the townsfolk struggled to extinguish it, carrying barrels of water from the lake. Ever since the awakening of the garden, the harvests of grain had been extraordinary. The island didn’t have to rely on imports anymore – until this summer.

People sacrificed hop, barley and sheep’s blood at Freya’s garden, praying for rain.

On the second day of their return, heavy rain clouds fattened on the horizon and hovered over the islands to shower them with their cool bliss. People ran out on the fields to catch the drops, laughing with arms outstretched in praise of the goddess. Nannah giggled and imitated them. Her cats jumped from her swift, dancing feet, circling with the other children of Larvik.

The blissful rain lasted for a week.

A few weeks later, Frieda, Anneke, Sigvard and their new baby Alvar came to visit Gunnar an Hindar in Larvik. They travelled to the cabin to visit Regis and his family.

Nannah held the baby carefully and gazed warmly into his little face. The eight-years old Anneke remembered the day the monster birds attacked their boat and told the story to Nannah who listened with eyes wide. She and Nannah spend time with Dettlaff in his workshop.

They were also visited by Triss and Geralt, who arranged for the family to meet the Queen. Rennaugh found Cerys an Craite to be strong and wise. Rennaugh’s conviction to never tell the Queen about Astrid and her powers faltered. Surely, Cerys would not to let any harm come to the girl? She needed Sigrdrifa’s advice on the matter.

She told Triss. They agreed to propose to Sigrdrifa to send any force sensitive child to the school of magi in Kovir, if they consented.

When she met the High priestess in the temple again, Sigrdrifa told her the news: another girl had been found, this time on Ard Skellig.

 

*

 

Rennaugh inhaled the smell of sawdust and fir resin outside the wood shed of the house outside Fyresdal. A girl of eight years old, with mahogany brown hair and green eyes stood beside her, plucking at her cuticles.

When she noticed Rennaugh’s gaze, she hid her hands, sore and brick red, underneath her apron.

Inside the house, Sigrdrifa spoke to her parents, a woodcutter and his wife.

“Your name is Bo?”

“Yes,” the girl sulked, “my father wanted a boy. He got me instead.”

Rennaugh’s heart clenched at those words.

“It’s a nice name.”

The girl shrugged.

Pain, Rennaugh thought. This girl has learned how to hide her emotional scars early.

“So, does the priestess want me or not?”

“What do you want, Bo?”

The girl lifted her hand again to gnaw at her cuticles and tapped on the wall of the shed with her foot. Her eyes welled up with tears.

“I want to get away from here,” she whispered.

Bo squeaked when Dettlaff materialized in front of them, frowning.

“They are coming.”

Heart pounding, Rennaugh grabbed the girl by her shoulders.

“Bo, we need to hurry. I’ll need to alert the High priestess.” She cast a worried glance at Dettlaff.

“I’ll distract them,” he murmured, and disappeared again.

Bo stared at the empty air from which he dissipated.

“Is he also a mage?”

“No, but – something like it. Listen to me carefully, Bo.”

Rennaugh interlocked their gazes.

“I’m going to take you away from here.”

To her surprise, the girl grinned.

“Can you teach me to disappear like he did?”

 

*

 

Two days later, Rennaugh and Sigrdrifa meet in her office at the temple on Hindarsfjall. She shuddered from the memory of their journey to Ard Skellig.

Dettlaff had managed to stall the druids momentarily by shredding a tree in their way. Rennaugh alerted the High priestess, grabbed the meagre belongings of Bo and ran with her to hide in the forest outside her house.

The Hierophant came to fetch the girl, only to find her gone and the High priestess in the abode.

The leaders of the two congregations exchanged harsh words. He accused her of hiding a force sensitive under her wings, an accusation to which she merely huffed in retort. The child heard the calling, she insisted, and was to train as a priestess, all in agreement with her parents.

“He didn’t believe me,” Sigrdrifa told Rennaugh, “of course he didn’t. Thankfully, her parents never betrayed her. I think they want her to stay on these islands.”

“He will surely alert the Queen.”

“Surely! And he can prove nothing.”

“Couldn’t we speak to the Queen, modron? Would she not understand?”

Sigrdrifa sighed.

“I don’t like going behind the back of Cerys. She is kind, and wise, but she is also loyal to the druids. Haerviu has her trust. And she is loyal to the traditions of these islands.”

A small crevice appeared between Rennaugh’s eyebrows.

“This enmity between the druids and the priestesses – is it really the Great Mother’s wish?”

“I hear you have been speaking to Bran, hm?”

A spark of surprise lit in Rennaugh.

“Yes – yes, as a matter of fact, I have. Has he spoken to you, Modron?”

“No, but he has uttered his ideas of the joining of the druids and priestesses to the Hierophant. As you might surmise, it was not well-received. It is, no doubt, the reason Bran hasn’t visited the temple for these last two years.”

Rennaugh swallowed. It was true; she hadn’t seen Bran in a long time.

“I have advocated for his return to the temple,” Sigrdrifa continued, “But the relation between our congregations…”

“Modron –“ Rennaugh squared her shoulders. “These girls. I can only help them control their powers. I cannot teach them magic. They need education. Not only that – they need peers.”

“We can give them education,” Sigrdrifa huffed, “what do you think the priestesses do during their days in the temple – knit and compose little songs? This is an educational facility. We have the largest library on the Skellige isles.”

“They could be sent to the school of magi in Kovir. Triss Merigold has agreed to take them in.”

“The girls are of these islands. I will not send them away.”

“Modron, Bo has expressed her wish to go –“

“I said no.”

The air tensed around them.

“You wish to revive the sisterhood.” Rennaugh’s voice resonated hard, “Is that it, Sigrdrifa? Do you wish to collect these children under your wings to revive the old ways?”

Ready for another retort of the High priestess, she stiffened her jaw.

“I can never be part of those ways, modron.”

Sigrdrifa’s eyes flashed. They stared at each other until the High priestess lost air.

“No, Rennaugh. We can never go back to the old ways. I wanted to – I wanted to make up for the girls I failed. The girls taken from us. I hoped – maybe if they stayed and learned to use their powers to do good, the people of Skellige would know magic is not alien to these islands, or at fault for everything bad that happens here.”

She gave Rennaugh a pained look and turned to face the small statue of Freya on the window pane of her room.

“If the girl wishes to go to Kovir… I suppose it is not my place to stop her. She is the proprietor of her own life, after all.”

 

*

 

Nannah giggled at Hogni who jumped at the toy she’d made for her, her claws outstretched towards the string bound to a bundle of hay. The cat lay on her back, front paws pouncing at the toy. Stretching out her hand, Nannah tried foolishly to pet her belly, but the cat continued the play and sank her claws into the soft flesh of the girl’s wrist.

“Ouch, Hogni no!” Nannah whimpered and drew her hand back. She placed a finger on her skin and traced it along the scratch from the cat’s claws. It quickly retracted from glinting drops of blood to soft, unscarred skin.

The cat stared at her expectantly before squinting as if she had no problem in the world. Tovni appeared from behind the cabin to join her sister.

“What happened?”

Rennaugh tended to the garden outside their house, close enough to be able to cast occasional glances at her daughter. The rays of the sun glistened on the thick hair bun she wore on the top of her head. Her three hens cackled lowly beside her, overseen by their rooster who guarded them from the teasing claws of the cats.

“Hogni scratched me!” Nannah’s bottom lip pouted.

“Don’t be angry with Hogni for using her claws,” Rennaugh replied, “it’s like being angry with the clouds for sometimes bringing us rain.”

“Nannah, come here.” Regis called for her.

Nannah smiled and went hippety-hop to where he squatted to show her a plantain leaf in his hand.

“Put this on the scratch. Let me see.”

He frowned when he discovered nothing but unscarred skin. He gazed up into her eyes again.

“Did you yell for nothing?”

“No Regis, there was blood, but I closed it!”

His grip on her arm tightened.

“Closed it, how?”

A tinge of fear gleamed in her eyes.

The year before, Nannah told Regis she wished to marry her father when she got older. He grinned and patted her on her arm, asking her who her mother would marry then? Confused from the apparent logic in his question, she frowned her little eyebrows before she smiled and asserted she could marry him instead. He laughed and accepted the embrace she gave to assure him she’d never leave him out of her love.

“I told the blood to go away and it did!” she yanked her hand back and cast a glance at her mother who stopped picking at her garden, a worried frown on her face.

“Go play again, Nannah.”

The child sulked but did as he told.

Regis went up to Rennaugh.

“We must speak to her, tonight.”

“She’s so little.”

“She is intelligent enough.”

Rennaugh brushed the dirt from a leek. “Let us at least wait for Dettlaff to return before we decide.”

 

The family dined. Regis had made the local dish _palt,_ a variant of the continental dumplings; buns made from grain and potatoes filled with a mix of fried mushroom and garlic, placed in boiling water until they floated. Nannah loved them with lingonberry jam and butter.

“Nannah,” Regis gave her a reassuring nod, “you did nothing wrong. In fact, you did good. But promise me this; should you get hurt among the children from Larvik, don’t heal any wounds on your own. Fetch an adult, always.”

“But why?”

“Because you might scare the other children. This is a rare gift of yours. They might not understand, and people are often afraid of what they don’t understand.”

Nannah turned her face to her father, who nodded sternly.

“Listen to Regis, Nannah.”

“I won’t tell the other children,” she avowed.

“Time for you to go to bed.” Dettlaff said.

“Will you tell me the story of Renfri, apa? Please?”

Dettlaff made a face. The fairy-tale of Renfri wasn’t his favourite.

As they left, Rennaugh sat in silence, a worried knot between her eyebrows.

“The ability to regenerate,” Regis said, “is not exclusive to vampires at all, as you know. We simply heal our wounds with extraordinary speed.”

She let her intertwined fingers rest against the table, nodding to let him know she wished him to go on.

Happy to oblige, he continued:

“It relates to our ability to produce vitamin C. Humans can’t; you acquire it through your diet. You see; without vitamin C, the body cannot produce collagen, an essential component of bones, cartilage, tendons and other connective tissues. Collagen binds wounds. If the body goes to long without vitamin C, old wounds thought healed will magically, painfully reappear. Thus, the body is a mere catalogue of wounds, imperfectly locked doors quietly waiting, sooner or later, to spring back open.”

“The reason vampires crave blood,” Regis continued, “is because of our need for vitamin B12. Without it, we wouldn’t be able to rematerialize after vanishing, because we need to rebuild the structures of our cells swiftly. Vitamin B12 is essential for this task. Did you know, the ability to dematerialize is only partly controlled by our will? In face of threat, it functions as a reflex. Imagine if we couldn’t assemble our corporeal selves after having gone up in smoke?”

He smiled, but regained his frown at his subsequent words.

“It is also the reason why I never could have regenerated by my own volition after the happenings in Stygga Castle. Dettlaff’s blood saved me. Because of the sheer amount he donated, he struggled to dematerialize for months. Not a small sacrifice for a vampire. He risked his life for me.”

Rennaugh had heard the story before, but it always warmed her heart.

“Nannah is not a vampire.”

“Correct,” Regis replied, “but she is of vampiric origin, why I contest her humanity – like I do yours.”

Rennaugh swallowed. She’d ventured to these islands to understand herself better, naïve enough to believe answers would make her less confused. If not entirely human, then what was she? A mortal half-breed, the result of cruel experiments, or the result of two species coming together in desire? She remembered the mosaics in the crystal room.

_Mother, father, how much of this did you know? Anything at all?_

A cold determination spread in her body. What did the essence of her nature matter, when all she wished for was this life, this family, to live in peace?

Dettlaff reentered the kitchen.

“She’s asleep.”

He placed a hand on Rennaugh’s shoulder in an affectionate gesture and sat beside her.

“So,” Regis said, “Nannah can regenerate; however, she does so at will and not automatically as we do. She can likely heal others with her touch, like you did when you were pregnant, Rennaugh.”  

“It was never my ability, but hers.”

Regis hummed in agreement.

“She also has an unusual magical ability to sprout life into inanimate objects, such as pencils. Therefore, I would suggest she is a mage, and that her ability to regenerate is related to magic rather than vampirism, no matter her vampiric origin.”

“We should take her away from here.”

Rennaugh stiffened at Dettlaff’s words.

“This is her home.”

“The people of these islands don’t agree with magic wielders,” he responded. “I will not expose her to their contempt, or worse, their violence. We can settle in Nazair, for a while at least.”

“You need to give the people on Hindarsfjall more credit, Dettlaff.”

“And you need to stop being so naïve regarding humans.”

She slowly shook her head with a warm glint in her eye.

“You don’t wish to leave any more than I do.”

He fell silent, jaw taut.

When they arrived on Hindarsfjall, she settled down immediately, as if they weren’t visitors searching for answers about a legend, but immigrants searching for a new home. Neither he nor Regis questioned it. On this island, Dettlaff slowly found recognition, a family life, peace. He experienced a sense of belonging to Hindarsfjall, a connection to the soil, to the mountains and the roaring sea.

The memory of Nannah’s complexion paling the further they ventured from the islands came to him, how her spirits returned when they set foot on the cliffs outside Larvik again.

They stayed.

Years after, Rennaugh sometimes wondered how events would have unfolded differently, had she listened to Dettlaff that night.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: this chapter contains some of the absolute first scenes I wrote for this fic. I had no idea where it would end up. 
> 
> The part where the villagers treat Dettlaff with more benevolence because of his fatherly attentions is inspired by the father-daughter relationship between Rhett Butler and Bonnie in Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the wind. 
> 
> The little red squirrel song is a version of a popular Swedish children’s song [Ekorrn satt i granen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HAOAln9m8K8) by Alice Tegnér.
> 
> Nanna’s little cow poem is inspired by the song [Lille katt](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WVB6xng85ks) (Little Cat) from Emil i Lönneberga by Astrid Lindgren.
> 
> “The body is a mere catalogue of wounds, imperfectly locked doors quietly waiting, sooner or later, to spring back open” is word for word taken from [this essay](http://davidmaisel.com/essays/infinite-exchange/), which I found fascinating.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have an idea. I might be able to help her. Do you trust me, Dettlaff?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic has been blessed by [ this beautiful fanart ](https://marmottine.tumblr.com/post/179754793716/a-fanart-of-dettlaff-rennaugh-and-nannah-in-the) by the talented Marmottine!

Dettlaff let his energies drift towards a small silhouette, past birches and pine trees, through patches of sorrel, cranesbill, fern and lichen. The rising sunlight reflected in her raven hair, so like his own. He worried her small leather sandals wouldn’t protect her feet from the nettles, or worse, the adders.

Before Nannah came to them, he had thought of children as small beings in need of their parents; he hadn’t been prepared to find himself so much in need of her. He had imagined to be the one to teach her of this world, but it was she who had taught him so much about life.

He wished to always to be his best person for her, to be the one she needed.

”No, apa. Don’t follow me. I can see your mist. Let me take care of myself.”

He rematerialized and stepped out from behind the pine tree.

“You know I can’t, little starling.”

“Why can’t you?”

“Because I worry, husivu. What will you do when the harpies darken the sky and swoop down to attack you?”

“I will run to the lake and swim underwater.”

“What will you do if the ice troll decides to hurl a boulder at you?”

“I will hide behind the cliffs.”

“What if the wolves catch your scent and decides you look like a tasty snack?”

She giggled. The wolves would never hurt her.

“I will climb up a tree and insult them!”

She jovially blurted out epithets as she swung a branch of fern to whisk at the ground.

“Horse shite! Porridge brain! Nekker dung! Sheep shagger!”

“If your mother heard you say such things…”

She turned and smiled at him.

“Apa, what would you do if I fell down the chasm beyond the temple?”

“Please don’t speak like that, Nannah.”

Her smile faded from the look of his face. With a few steps of her small feet, she walked up to him and pulled at his leather coat, coaxing him to bend down, and placed her scrawny arms around his neck.

“Don’t worry, apa. Hogni and Tovni will take care of me.”

Hearing her name, Tovni meowed. Hogni rolled on her back and pounced her paw at a moth.

“I wish you wouldn’t grow up so fast, little one.”

She let go of her embrace and turned to continue further into the thicket. He fought an urge to lift her in his arms and take her back to the house. The crying call of a falcon echoed through the treetops.

“Will you go to the temple?”

“No, not today. She hasn’t called me.”

“The High priestess?”

“No, silly. Ati.”

His visage darkened. He didn’t mind Nannah being pious – everyone on the island referred to the Goddess as Modron. He disliked her using the word of their language.

“Why don’t you ever call your mother that?”

She turned her gaze to him, all playfulness gone in her demeanor. A faint light ebbed from her eyes that conveyed a stillness like the surface of a lake; beaming of pity, of warmth.

“Come home soon.” He swallowed the last word.

“I will.”

As she strode through the greenery, the life around her bent, from the tips of the grasses to the branches of the firs. As if greeting her.

 

*

 

As Nannah grew older, she adopted a melancholy, calm demeanor. She helped with the harvest of flax and went to the temple on a regular basis. She treated her family members kindly, sometimes caressing Regis or Dettlaff’s cheeks while she uttered the words that caused a slight chill run down Rennaugh’s spine: “Mi zini tesham-zu, lautnivu.”

Nannah carried a burden inside her. Rennaugh wished she could take it, all of it, and let her be more like other children; careless and free.

The girl spent much time with Regis and often sat beside him in his shed while he tinkered with his utensils or made notes of herbs native to the island.

“Lautni, why do we live?”

Her legs dangled from the bench where she sat. The night fell outside the window of the shed, a faint glow of the sky colored the mountaintops in a warm hue. He brewed a new form of concoction that spread an aroma of allspice. Outside, the yip yip of the fox told them she hunted to feed her new litter of pups.

Regis lifted a curious glance to her.

“That is a question that has as many answers as there are people who have asked it. What do you believe, Nannah?”

Her head dropped to her chest.

“Why do we live when we have to die?” she whispered.

He placed his utensil on the desk with a low clang, heart cramping.

“Nannah,” he caressed her cheek and caught a tear that fell down the warm skin of her cheek. “I don’t know what happens when you die. But I do believe in a life before death. In fact, it is because of death one can know one lives. Because of death, the fragile beauty of life appears.”

He tucked a raven strand of her hair behind her ear.

“Can I tell you what I believe is the greatest reason to live?”

She nodded.

“Because of others – because of love.”

 

*

 

One late summer afternoon, when Nannah was seven years old, Rennaugh took her to the forest to pick the first blueberries of the year.

Rennuagh inhaled the acidic scent of a nearby anthill and smiled as the clearing revealed long stretches of ripe berries. The first chanterelles sprouted their golden hats through the soil. Perhaps it would be a good year for penny buns – the plump, brown caps of the mushroom always reminded Rennaugh of the first time she met Dettlaff.

Nannah sat down and ate most of her harvest, crooning a little song through purple-stained lips. Rennaugh kept an eye open for endregas. They nested further to the east, but she wished to stay alert.

A rustling, followed by a deep moan caused Rennaugh to stiffen her muscles and her heart to race. She opened her palm to surge forth her powers.

A huge bear with dark fur and paws large as skillets appeared through the thicket, walking towards Nannah. It panted and groaned, limping from an injury to its hind leg. Rennaugh lifted her hand.

“No!” Nanna exhaled.

Rennaugh let her hand sink to her side and subdued the surge of power in her veins. Mesmerized, she stood still as the animal walked up to her daughter and sunk its head into her lap. It fell to the ground with a moan. The vegetation around them flattened in a ruffled sound.

Rennaugh scarcely dared to breath.

Nannah lifted her hands and rested her palm over the bear’s eye. Its chest heaved in a great, rumbling sigh.

As Nannah withdrew her hand, the bear breathed no more. Its pink tongue hung limp from its mouth. A fly buzzed around its body, already attracted to the decay.

Nannah didn’t utter a word as her eyes met Rennaugh’s.

 

*

 

After the episode with the bear, Nannah woke up by nightmares, crying. Rennaugh held her in her arms.

“I know what must be done. But I’m afraid,” her daughter sniveled.

“What are you afraid of, little starling?”

“Dying.”

Rennaugh’s heart froze, but she kept her voice steady.

“You’re not going to die yet, sweetie. Not in a long, long time.”

She sang the lullaby Nannah loved while she stroked her raven hair.

 

Hush little starling

Rest your tired eyes

tomorrow is a new morning

and a new dawn will rise

 

Dettlaff stood by the doorway, observing them, as Nannah went back to sleep. Rennaugh cast him a desperate gaze.

That’s it, he thought. No more.

He strode into the kitchen, ready to leave, but stopped at the realization of the futility to go to the temple right away. He’d wait until dawn.

Regis appeared from the loft.

“She is hurting.”

Dettlaff scowled at his blood brother.

Regis made a gesture.

“I have an idea. I might be able to help her. Do you trust me, Dettlaff?”

“I have an idea myself. I will confront the priestess.”

“Please, let me do this first.”

 

*

 

The next morning, Regis woke Nannah with a soft pat on her shoulder. He explained to Rennaugh he needed to show the girl a place where she might find a way to alleviate her worry.

Rennaugh frowned, but packed Nannah a small satchel with honey-sweetened water, dried fruit and a sandwich.

Dettlaff squatted before his daughter.

“Nannah – Regis wishes to show you a place where you can speak of your nightmares. Do you wish to go with him?

“Yes, apa”.

He tensed his jaw, wishing she’d given him another answer, but nodded back.

Outside the cabin, child and vampire walked together over the meadows, through the forest and to the edge of the cliffs that separated the island from the roaring sea. Nannah followed him without question.

“Nannah, do you trust me?” Regis tore his eyes from the crashing waves.

She nodded and tucked a straying strand of her raven hair behind her ear, a motion so alike Rennaugh’s it made him smile. She wore a knitted cardigan with a floral pattern he found sweet, fitting for a child. But she was getting older, and he trusted her to understand what he was about to do.

Regis closed his eyes and transformed. His arms elongated, his fingers stretched long. From his arms grew leathery, grey skin strewn with blood vessels. A thick, grey fur erupted on his back and legs as his ears and eyes enlarged.

Mouth open, she remained silent as he transformed into his bat form.

Regis’ heart pounded dully in his chest as he prepared for her to run from him in fear or disgust.

She took a step closer and reached out her hand to caress his winged arm.

“Regis,” she whispered, “it’s you. It’s really you.”

Her words melted the fear in him. He opened his eyes. Yes, this was him; she saw him for what he was. Nannah stretched out her other hand to caress his fur, smiling. He leaned against her and she giggled as the coarse hair tickled her face. The sound sent a wave of warmth through him.

“Yes, hus.” He outstretched his large wings and flapped them. “Now, hold on to me.”

She let out a squeak of excitement as they soared down alongside the cliffs, together.

 

They landed outside a grotto, along the cliffside of Ard Skellig. A mild rain fell on the cliff and clung to their clothes. Flapping gulls screeched their protest to be robbed of their favorite resting spot by the cave. Nannah’s smile died when she climbed down Regis’ back to peer into the opening of the cave.

Regis transformed into his human form and held the string of his leather satchel.

“This is the cave of dreams, Nannah. Have you heard of it?”

She nodded in silence. Her expression told him she was aware of why he had taken her to this place. The wind whisked her hair, but she didn’t take notice.

“It is said, that in this place, you face your greatest fears.”

She cast him a glance full of dread.

“I know my greatest fear,” she whispered.

“Yes, Nannah.” He peered into the cave opening and inhaled the sea breeze. “But you have yet to face it.”

She drew in breath and let her eyes rest on the cave opening before holding out her hand to his.

“Please come with me, lautni.”

Nodding, he took her hand. He couldn’t send her into this alone. It was time he faced his own fears.

They entered the cave. Inside, the roaring of the sea muffled against the moist stone walls, replaced by a dripping sound from within. The air was cool, but not cold, and smelled freshly of salt and damp moss.

“Now, Nannah,” Regis avoided to step into a puddle of greenish water on the ground, “humans need an intake of certain hallucinogenic herbs to get the visions offered in this cave. More specifically, hemlock, poppy, nightshade and henbane. It causes them to slip into a trance. Whereas we…”

“We don’t need them,” she exhaled and craned her neck to gaze in awe at the large, floating whale that flew above their heads in a translucent blue color. Its tail bounced softly against the cavern air. They gazed up at schools of fish, radiant blue, and the outline of a large manta ray that sailed past, flapping enormous wings of stardust.

“It also means the visions might be different for us.”

Nannah let go of his hand.

“I need to go alone from here.”

Slowly, as if in trance, she walked further into the cave and passed a natural stone column formed by the passing of wind and rain.

“Nannah the brave,” Regis whispered as his gaze lingered on her back until she took a turn and walked out of his sight.

He listened to the distant lowing of the floating, starlit whale.

The hair on Regis’ neck stood up.

His face strained from a sudden, violent headache. He leaned forward, eyes pinched shut.

Cold midnight air softly grazed his hair. He inhaled a faint smell of verbena and lavender, the scent of Touissant in spring... The weight of his boots crunched the dust of an old ruin.

He opened his eyes in panic, cold realization hitting his guts like a landslide. He was in Tesham Mutna, beside Geralt in his Griffin school armor, who reached above his shoulder to draw his silver sword. In front of them stood Dettlaff, his outstretched claws ripping into empty air, an expression of rage and surprise on his face.

_No_ , Regis’ whole being screamed in agony, _Sylvia Anna has found a way to escape, there will be a fight and I will have to choose between a beloved friend and my blood brother, no, no…_

His heart cramped as if gripped by a hand. He’d always known his choice. Darkness fell over him again and he tumbled.

Behind him, distant yells and shouting grew into a cacophony. Regis opened his eyes and found himself in a tower room, mouth dripping with the sweet blood of the mage’s dead lackeys.

He stretched his body, the strength of the blood coursing through his veins like a beast previously trapped and now unleashed. Light-headed and bleary-eyed, he laughed at how easily his claws slashed through human bodies, their limbs tumbling to the floor, until he stood face to face with him.

The mage.

The man he had learned went by the name of Vilgefortz, whose blue robes billowed in the breeze that flew in from the open windows of the castle. The jewel that served as his eye glistened from the light of several tallow candles.

They were alone.

A red light emanated from the mage’s hands. Regis screamed. He screamed until his throat ached. Vilgefortz stumbled, nostrils flared, his hair sleek with sweat. The light from his hand grew in intensity, until he aimed his palms to Regis, who threw his body to the right to avoid the flash of red lightning from the mage. The force of the spell threw Vilgefortz off his feet. He struggled to scramble up on his knees.

Regis lunged at the mage and cut off his outstretched hands. Vilgefortz opened his mouth and let out a wordless wail, his functioning eye bulging red with burst capillaries.

Darkness surrounded Regis.

Relief soared through his body. He remembered, he was in the cave of dreams, facing his worst fears, and he would wake up – soon, this would be over.

_Immobile, fixated._

The damp, stuffed air in his lungs didn’t come from the inside of a cave, but from the inside of a coffin. Buried deep, the weight of six feet of soil pressed on his body. The regeneration of his severed head still burned a trail of fire along his neck. Roaring, he pushed the lid of the coffin with all his might and thrusted dirt and wood upwards until he met nothing but air. He flung his torso through the ground, crawled up and stood on shaky legs, whisking soil from his hair and arms.

Sight still bleary from the sandy soil, his ears picked up a low growl. Footsteps creaked on the dry leaves, a twig snapped from the weight of a large paw.

Fangs bare, Regis jumped in a large twist, barely avoiding the slash of the werewolf’s claws. Roaring, the beast lost momentum, and turned to howl at the night sky before it tensed its monstrous muscles in another attack.

Cold sweat ran down Regis’ temples, his tongue clung the roof of his mouth. The fetid smell of sweat from the werewolf revolted him.

I am a higher vampire, he thought, ignoring the churn of panic in his gut that told him to dematerialize and escape, I am infinitely stronger than a werewolf!

His arm shook as he slashed at the attacking beast, who fell to the ground with a shrill yelp, arms wrapped around his waist to prevent his guts from spilling to the ground, in vain.

Regis scrunched his nose at the sight and turned to walk away from the creature, who died with a whimper.

His chest heaved in deep breaths as he retracted his claws.

May this nightmare be over, he thought and closed his eyes, may I have faced all my fears…

A sound reached him, muffled voices from afar, coming closer.

The smell of burning torches reached his senses.

“There he is! The blood sucker!”

A mob of peasants, pitchforks and torches in hands drew nearer.

“My grandfather buried you!” a young man with ginger hair, a short beard and dirty linen shirt roared, “And I’ll make sure you stay underground!”

Regis winced, not in dread but in surprise. This, he didn’t fear. He wasn’t drunk, but in full control over his mind and body, why did he face this mob as part of his fears..?

His claws impaled the chest of the red-haired man and he let his fangs sink into his neck. His insides screamed for him to stop, to let go, but he was unable to control his actions.

The other men in the mob yelled in fear and rage, they lunged at him with their pitchforks and axes, but he easily razed them down, one after one.

_Laughable vermins! You are a plague on this world! Good for nothing but breeding and fucking – we should have kept you as cattle!_

His own words rasped an aching wound in him.

Blood flowed down his face, pooling in his stomach to fill his veins with its sweet, powerful nectar, he lifted his face and stared into the eyes of his brethren; surrounding him, they cheered him on, laughed and slashed through another human body. The fangs of Orianna scintillated like sword blades in the light of the moon, she laughed, splashed with blood, her dark eyes glistening with satisfaction and fervor.

From a distance, Regis caught the discontented glance of Dettlaff, of Geralt, Rennaugh and little Nannah turning from him in fear and disgust.

_No, no…_

Regis mustered the last of his will and threw his body from the scene on to his front, panting. His nails scratched the dirt underneath him.

When he reopened his eyes, he stared down on a winged arm, pale and sinewy.

He hung upside down in a cave, forever guarding a portal.

He screamed.

Regis woke up on the floor of the cavern of dreams, sweat pooling underneath him. His jaw hurt from clenching hard.

Regis scrambled up on all fours, trembling. His heavy, warm breath bounced against the stone. He got up on his legs, grasped the string of his leather satchel, and walked on shaky legs to find Nannah.

The walls brought him the echo of her sobbing. The sound constricted his lungs, he sped up his steps.

“Not yet, Ati. They’re not ready.” The outcrop augmented her faint words.

Regi’s ears picked up the sound of a woman’s soft, crooning voice.

“They will never be ready. But they will accept. I chose them, not because they would not suffer, but because they would understand.”

More sobbing.

“Be brave, child. Remember your purpose.”

Regis rounded the stone pillar to reach the voices. Nannah sat on her knees, face turned to the stone floor. Her raven hair reflected the outline of a woman, or a vision of a woman, standing in front of the girl, glittering like she was made of blue stars. The woman transformed as he stepped closer, to a dragon with meaty strings by its snout. The simmering vision of the creature burst into a glittering cloud.

Nannah turned her head to him, eyes glossy and mouth hung open. She wiped at her face and stood up.

Transfixed, he followed her with his gaze as she came up to him and took his hand. She tilted her head back to look him in the eyes.

“Thank you, Regis. I’m not afraid anymore.”

He fell on one knee to embrace her. She leaned her head against his shoulder and placed her arms around his neck.

He shuddered, more afraid than ever.

 

After Regis and Nannah returned from their trip to the cave, Regis stepped into the kitchen, his satchel packed and fastened across his torso.

Rennaugh came out from the bedroom where she had tucked in an exhausted Nannah for a nap. She stopped blank on the spot at the sight of Regis packed and ready to go.

“What happened?”

“I do not know,” Regis replied, “and I am weary of asking that question.” He grabbed the string of his satchel.

“It is time for me to leave. I came to this island to get answers. I have found only more questions. The one who can confirm my suspicions dwells in the Blue Mountains.”

She grasped the pendant on her chest, pulled the chain over her head with a sweeping motion and walked up to him.

“Take this. Please be careful. Please come back to us.”

He accepted the pendant and squeezed it in his large fist. Dettlaff emerged from the annex. The vampires stared at each other, both still.

Regis leaned forward to place a kiss on Rennaugh’s cheek, walked up to Dettlaff and grasped his arm. Dettlaff pulled him close and embraced him. Touched, Regis returned the embrace.

He closed the door behind him with a muffled sound.

 

She came from a long, long way,

but I saw her at last, walking,

my daughter, my girl, across the fields,

 

in bare feet, bringing all of spring’s flowers

to her mother’s house. I swear

the air softened and warmed as she moved.

C.A. Duffy, “Demeter” (abridged)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The interaction between Nannah and Dettlaff in this chapter is inspired by the father-daughter relationship between Ronja and Mattis in Astrid Lindgren’s saga [Ronja Rövardotter](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ronia,_the_Robber%27s_Daughter). 
> 
> Vampiric language in this chapter:  
> Mi zini tesham-zu, lautnivu – I will take care of you, my family.  
> Lautni – of the family.  
> Hus – child.  
> Ati – I believe the meaning of this word is obvious.
> 
> The question “what would happen if a higher vampire entered the cave of dreams?” was too interesting not to explore, although I had to torture Regis to find out. 
> 
> A heads up: the story gets darker from here, something I hope I’ve foreshadowed throughout the previous chapters. I wish to tell any interested reader that this fic has a peaceful ending. I don’t dare to write ‘happy ending’ because I can’t guarantee my understanding of ‘happy’ corresponds to others’!


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I believed her! I hoped she was right - that one day, the Aisuna would be born, and through her, we would know freedom."

A week after Regis’ departure from Hindarsfjall, Dettlaff materialized inside the High priestesses’ chambers. He didn’t have to sneak into the temple; she slept with her window open. Her chest calmly rose and sank underneath her plain woollen blanket.  A pink shimmer above the ragged line of fir trees in the horizon told of the arrival of dawn.

She would wake up soon. She’d sense his presence and open her eyes.

When she did, she didn’t blink.

_She’s been waiting for me._

“Would you give me the courtesy of getting dressed?” Sigrdrifa asked sternly, “I will speak to you, but not in my shift.”

He nodded, arms folded on his chest, and let her leave for the room adjacent to her chambers. She soon returned, dressed in a grey smock and brown cap, her grey hair neatly arranged underneath it.

Involuntarily, he was struck by her impressiveness. Her height nearly matched his.

She didn’t ask him what he wanted, no sarcastic questions of to what I owe the pleasure. Instead, she met his gaze calmly. The gold in her eyes glimmered.

“You have come to speak to me about Nannah. Before we do, I’d like to ask you: what do you remember of your childhood, Dettlaff?”

He lost his built-up steam from her question.

“Why do you ask me such a thing, priestess?”

She touched the polished surface of her desk and sat on the edge.

“Let me tell you a story. On this island, hundreds of years ago, a girl was born. She grew up beautiful; raven hair and blue eyes, pale like the sky after a rainy day. That girl joined the priestesses, and one day, she had a son. She left the islands to protect the child from a fate she didn’t wish to bestow on him. She was chased and killed. No one knows what became the boy.”

A heavy weight fell in Dettlaff’s chest.

“Why are you telling me this?” he whispered.

The high priestess smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Her fingers intertwined on her lap.

“You are not the only vampire who’s come to this temple asking questions, Dettlaff. She was also here, the one with the black eyes. What was her name?

Dettlaff’s nostrils flared.

“Ciartia.”

“Yes, that’s it. She told me of you.”

Hot fury rose in his chest and ignited his mind. He moved to pin the throat of this woman to the wall –

She stood up, fast like a snake, and stretched her arm before her. Before he reached her, the muscles in his body went rigid. Hands outstretched to his sides, an invisible force pushed him against the wall.

He remembered being pinned to a wall like this once before, in the crypt at Mère Lachaise-lounge cemetery. But it wasn’t a priestess who shoved his body by the energies of the air that day, but Rennaugh.

“You,” he strained from the force that still held him planted to the wall, “you are an ixa. Like Rennaugh. You have lied to her this whole time.”

“Why no,” she replied, her arm still outstretched, palm turned towards him, “I’ve told her of the powers of priestesses. I merely haven’t told her of the extent of my powers.”

“Do you realize,” he snarled, “the bruxa used the knowledge you gave her to kidnap Rennaugh in an attempt to take her life?

Sigrdrifa’s eyes widened. She let go of her grasp of his body.

“No – impossible. I never gave any information that could have –“

Her shoulders slanted.

“She went to the druids,” she whispered, “it’s the only explanation.”

Dettlaff squirmed to release his muscles from the remnants of her magic.

“You nearly killed her with your stupidity!” he growled.

“No – I would never hurt her! Who do you think came to your aid when the air elemental attacked your ship?”

He stared at her, mouth open.

“It was you?”

“Of course!” Sigrdrifa exhaled, “I felt her coming! I’ve felt her ever since she first realized she was with child.”

His muscles ached from the ghost of the telekinetic grasp of his body. He raised his index finger.

“You will explain all.”

Sigrdrifa took a step to approach him and held out her palms. The wool of her kirtle rustled by the movement.

“There is not much to know. Rennaugh is the last in a long line of attempts to create She Who Comes After, the saviour and guardian of this island. It is fate that you should meet, for you were literally made for each other.”

“Leave my daughter out of your scheming, priestess.” Every word came out hot from his mouth.

The High priestesses’ eyes flashed.

“You speak of her as your daughter. She may have come through you, but not from you, Sveleri-nesna. She is the daughter of this island, part of its essence. You know this. When you took her to the continent – how did she react?”

“What did you call me?”

Sigrdrifa’s demeanour softened, as if she wished for them not to quarrel anymore.

“Dettlaff, know that what has happened, what you have done, means the salvation of these islands. It was meant to be. I will do everything it takes to –“

“You will do nothing!” he growled, “It was a mistake to come to Skellige. I will take Nannah and Rennaugh away from this island. I will not let them be part of your scheming!”

Sigrida clenched her hands.

“Nannah belongs here! To take her from this island would be like ripping the heart from a chest. You know it! You feel it too! Have you not enjoyed your life on Hindarsfjall, Dettlaff? You are of this island too. You will not leave so easily.”

His body heated from denial of her words.

“You are wrong, witch. My home is where they are. We are family. She is born of my flesh and she is my daughter in heart and soul. You have no control over us. And you will leave us alone.”

With those words, he took a few long strides to the window, and dematerialised.

 

*

 

The sun warmed Rennaugh’s neck as she walked towards the lake with Nannah and the cats in tow. She extended a hand to adjust the bonnet on the child’s head, making sure it shaded her face. Nannah shook her dark head, barely agreeing to tie the ribbons of the bonnet under her hair. Hogni and Tovni stealed beside them as always, their raven furs glistening in the light.

April neared its end, the celebration of Belleteyn around the corner. The island sprung alive like it always did with the return of the sun and warmth. Violets and wild cervils sprouted through the grass, the shrill tjick-tjick-tjick! of the woodpecker flew among the branches of trees.

Nannah inquired of both Dettlaff’s and Regis’ whereabouts; Rennaugh replied her father would return later. To distract the girl, she proposed they take a stroll to the lake. It was a popular place during warm days, people gathered by the sandy banks to relax and to let their children play in the brink of the water while socializing under the shadow of the birch trees.

Spring meant intense work on the fields, but most families found time for leisure and relaxation, especially during the warmest hours of the day.

A girl of Nannah’s age called her name when they rounded the tree-covered hill to reach the lake. Nannah broke from Rennaugh to run to her friend.

Rennaugh smiled at the difference in appearance of the children. Nannah, tall and slim like a crane fly, raven hair like her father, contrasted to the near white color of her plump friend Lina’s hair. The girls loved each other and were like two peas in a pod. Lina’s family sat by the lake, her mother Marit breast feeding her youngest on a blanket, shaded of the birches.

Rennaugh joined her.

They gossiped about the news that caused much excitement, not only among the people of Skellige, but in all the nations on the continent. The Empress had given birth to twins; a daughter and a son, both with flaming red hair. She announced their names to be Cáerme Fiona Yennefer Gvalch’ca aen Inis and Carwyn Carraigh Geralt Dhueimyr aep Deithwen. To name her daughter after the rebellious Falka caused an upstir among the nobility not only in Nilfgaard but in most courts on the continent. But the Empress was adamant, and her consort stood by her decision.

“My mother says it will bring the child bad luck,” Marit said and patted the back of her baby to make him burp, “that nothing good can come from that name.”

Rennaugh repressed a shudder.

“It’s just a name.” She didn’t explain why she abhorred such superstition, especially regarding children.

A low cry reached her ears. It came from an animal, but the sound resonated like metal flung to the ground.

She froze.

“Did you hear..?"

Marit shook her head.

“Hear what?” she smiled.

On an instinct, Rennaugh stood up and searched with her gaze for the girls. They were making a sand castle by the brink of the water while Lina’s little brother waddled a bit further away towards a pair of canards in the reed.

Misunderstanding her intent, Marit assured her Lina and Nannah kept their eye on the boy and that he seldom strayed too far from his elder sister.

A whooshing sound.

Rennaugh ran.

She ran so fast she got a stitch in her side. Her heart beat wildly.

Scattered gasps and squeals told her others saw what approached them.

The girls twitched their heads to her in surprise, but she ran past them and screamed for them to run for the glen, before she threw herself at the boy. She enclosed him in her arms, pressed him against the ground and closed her eyes.

A loud thud reached her ears, together with the rustle of limbs sprawled out on the ground. A screech vibrated her eardrums until they ached. Eyes still closed, the distant screams of the people further up the hill reached her. The boy she pinned to the ground whimpered.

Another screech, so strangely metallic.

She opened her eyes.

Surrounding her and the boy hovered a translucent shell that enclosed them like a near invisible egg. It rippled with faint orange tendrils across its surface.

Outside the shield flapped and trashed a monster with large, grey wings. A fanged mouth bit at its contours, in vain. Rennaugh gasped. The boy in her arms screamed in fright.

The creature resembled the dragon in the dungeon, although she’d never consider this beautiful. Its grey skin didn’t shine as it moved but stretched dull over muscles and tendons that reached down to large, clawed feet and spanned over upset wings. Its small eyes glared black, its mouth frothing with indignation of the inability to reach its prey. The wyvern spat at them, the poisonous fluid hissed against the barrier.

Outsmarted, the creature retreated and flew off towards the mountains. The shrill scream from its throat echoed against the cliffs.

Rennaugh let go of her grip of the little boy. The barrier vanished. He cried and called for his mother. Marit rushed to them and grabbed him from Rennaugh’s arms, she shushed and crooned to soothe his fear.

Rennaugh stood up, shaking. The people by the lake gathered around her.

Nannah perched by the edge of the lake, wide-eyed. The straps of her bonnet swayed in the wind.

No one uttered a word for long.

 

*

 

A tawny owl turned its flexible neck towards the man who walked erratically between the stems of pine trees as if wounded and delirious. It tensed its muscles underneath its brown plumage to escape should the man venture too close.

As the man strayed further away and stopped to sit on a rock, face in hands, the owl relaxed and blinked its black eyes.

The bird hadn’t known the man’s kind until a few years prior. It learned not to fear him nor his companion; the vampires posed little threat to owls, and they didn’t compete for prey.

The owl let out a calling sound, a series of toots followed by a long, quivering _hoo_. It didn’t have to wait long until a female answered his call with her typical _tu-whit_!

It flew towards the happy toot, unaware of the superstition among humans that the sound of his mate forebode death.

The vampire remained on the stone, deep in thought, when the tawny owl returned to its favourite spot on the pine tree branch. He didn’t leave until after the sun reached zenith.

 

*

 

Stalactites hung from the roofs of the cavern, deep into the Blue mountains, ever striving to meet their fellow stalagmites in a kiss. Drops of water fell into small pools with an echoing sound. The cave smelled of clean moist and spores of Sewant mushrooms.

Regis’ body tingled; after hours of searching in the cavern system, he had found the heart of the mountain. He clutched the pendant in his large hand, heart beating steadily against his ribs.

The Tdet Elder hung upside-down from the roof in a corner of the room, all grey, leathery wings curled up against a pale body.

Regis swallowed and closed his eyes. He prepared to face the disintegrating, soul-trapping death vampires experienced, where the flicker of the mind remained but ungrounded in anything corporeal. The death an elder could put him through. The kind he met in Stygga castle.

He opened his eyes to greet the elder and wake him from his slumber, when he noticed a mural underneath the elder.

Trembling, he stepped closer.

Engraved and painted in charcoal and red clay, the mural outlined a picture of a woman with bushy hair and deep, dark eyes. She smiled with slightly open, plump lips and a heady gaze he recognized; he’d seen it many times in women before. It reminded him of the way Rennaugh sometimes smiled at Dettlaff.

The woman depicted on the wall was in love with whomever painted her portrait.

The floor wobbled under his feet. He didn’t need to speak to the elder to understand why the picture of this woman adorned the wall.  

A rustle reached his ears. He managed to stretch out his hand with the pendant hanging from his fingers, before his whole body turned stiff and his mind shattered by a white-hot pain.

The Elder flung his body at Regis, hissing, but halted at the sight of the chain in his hand. He screeched.

“Nurya! The key! Where did you get this?” His blood shot eyes stared wide and pained. He reached for the amber stone with long, skeletal fingers.

“Spureni veres nac atranes.” Although Regis trembled, he kept his voice stable.

Slowly, the Elder took the pendant from his hand.

“Eclthi, lautni ama. I come from Skellige. I have seen the etchings inside the temple.”

The Tdet elder let his hand sink. His whole body slanted.

“Veitha,” he whispered.

 

*

 

Dettlaff directed his energies towards the cabin but had to stop outside Larvik, pulse hammering. He sat down on a stone, face in his hands, for the first time in his life fighting a nausea that threatened to churn his insides out. Images long forgotten flashed in his mind.

 

“Mother!”

“Dettlaff, please listen to me.”

“I don’t care for that name.”

“It’s a good name. It means ‘gentle wolf’… You and I are from Eretein, nowhere else. And you are of Garasham. Repeat.”

“Eretein. Garasham.”

“Here, drink this.”

“What is it?”

“It’s sheep’s blood. It will help you feel better. Listen, darling, I need to go – I promise I won’t be long. You have to stay put.”

“Where are you going, mother?”

“I can’t tell you. Not far.”

 

The hoot of a tawny owl sounded above his head.

 

*

 

“Her name was Harpa. I came for her blood. She was the first to not recoil in fear. And instead of drinking her, I spoke to her. Were I more adept with words, I would describe her to you. But I am no poet. Her hair was black, her skin brown, her eyes too. Through her palms radiated the strangest from of energy, strong enough to control the elements. She belonged to the Otkell clan.”

“You loved her.”

Regis flinched at the spark of irritation from the Elder.

“Love is not a word enough for our bond. Humans invent these notions to ground their affect in something real. She was I, and I was her. We founded the association. We had offspring. She was…”

The Elder glanced to the mural underneath his resting place.

“She was everything.”

“How was it possible for you to bare children together?”

“She claimed it belonged to the Great Mother’s will. That She wished for all the children of this world to intermingle. The force drew us to each other because it seeks equilibrium.”

“We are not of this world.”

The elder smiled, a grin that stretched the crisp skin on his face.

“I am no priest; I don’t claim to understand. We had a child, a daughter. She became the first norna of the Hath d’Morie.”

“Calthi, thu sech ceacnan, thunina”, Regis whispered.

“We discovered the strangest thing,” the Elder continued. “You have visited my lair - you have seen the crystals. They affect vampires born into this world, makes their matter solid, weakened”

Regis didn’t affirm the Elder. He had never visited the lair of an Elder. Dettlaff and Rennaugh told him about the room where the starlit crystals sprawled and emitted their strange light – the same crystals he scraped from the leather straps that the bruxa used to bind her in the cave in Touissant.

The crystals are from the vampire world, he thought, brought into this world by the violent breach of the conjuction. The Elders draw their powers from them, feed on them through the centuries, so their ever-watchful sleep will remain unbroken.

“My daughter,” the elder continued, “she broke the order apart and founded the sisterhood. She claimed their higher rank over the brothers because of their ability to procreate.”

“The Hath d’Morie was originally an order of men and women?”

The Elder shook his head. He held the amber pendant in front of his face, studying it with black eyes. The fiery tendril in its centre gleamed.

“The name Hath d’Morie came after the break from the human brothers. She encouraged me to let our brothers join them. So I did. By that time, I still believed in the ability for us to live together. Us – humans and vampires. After a few generations, out blood became so intermingled the crystals were no longer needed. Too late did I realize we wanted opposite things.”

“They wanted eternal life.”

“Yes, and I wanted it for her! I knew Harpa would die from me, but my daughter, I wanted her to always be with me, at least.”

“What happened?”

“They claimed they were the Great mother’s true children – that through them, her daughter would be born to this world, and through her, the islands blessed, for ever. And so, we upheld the relations. For some reason, boys predominantly inherited the vampire genes. Those boys were held, little more than breeding studs. Mostly girls were born force sensitive. But many children died young. And…”

The Elder stopped and closed his eyes. The skin on his body rippled from emotion, as if he tried to dematerialize, but failed.

“They killed the children born neither, Emiel Regis. The ones born mortal, without magic, without being vampires. They threw them into the ocean!”

A rush of blood left Regis’ head spinning. This was far worse than he had imagined. Rennaugh’s legacy; stained by the blood of the innocent.

“Some of the sisters rebelled, fled or turned to blood magic to revive their children. By that time, Harpa had been dead a long time, and I left the islands, never to return. My brothers followed me. The order crumbled over their own monstrosity. My daughter…”

“Why did you let it go on?” Regis didn’t care his voice came out hard like stone, that the accusation stretched the thin line of acceptance the Elder showed him.

The Elder hissed and climbed up the wall towards his usual resting place; a sign Regis’ audience neared its end.

“I believed her! I hoped she was right - that one day, the Aisuna would be born, and through her, we would know freedom. My daughter gave us the prophecy…”

The Elder vanished, and reappeared next to the mural of his beloved. He slowly lifted a sinewy hand and caressed the stony face depicted on the quartz. His voice flickered, fragile like paper.

“Harpa believed the force was just another name for love – the power which binds all life. Freya was the symbol of that force, and the Aisuna would be the embodiment of it. ‘All is full of love,’ she said. But I know, love is not eternal.”

His hand sunk, along with his gaze.

“I’m old,” his words came out heavy, slow like the drops of the stalactite. “Things repeat. Day and night, summer and winter. Everything circles around. Whatever starts pass away. Everything is empty and aimless. When you know you must live on and on, nothing matters.”

Regis heart sank at the Elder’s words. He glanced at his ivory-white skin, stretched over bones and lithe muscles, his eyes sunken into the skull of his head.

Regis knew love. He loved this world, deeply, when he forgot the chains that bound him to it. He met his greatest fear in this cavern, facing him with black strands underneath red-burst eyes, with skin dry like parchment.

This is what I will become, he thought. As time passes, my soul will decay but my body will live on, forever chasing a hopeless dream.

“We are Sveleri-nesna”, the Elder said, his eyes glossy. “Living creatures belonging to the dead.”

“No”, Regis replied. “There can be no life without death.”

He made a movement to leave, but gave in to an impulse, a last question.

“Your daughter - what became of her?”

The Elder stared at him, lips quavering. A muscle in his neck twitched.

All tendons in Regis body stretched out to the brink of snapping. The pain seared through his muscles like fire.

He inhaled a large gulp of air when the elder let go of his invisible grip of him.

“She is no more, Emiel Regis of Garasham.”

“You needn’t say anything more, lautni. I have all the answers I need.”

 

*

 

Dettlaff stumbled into the cabin after rematerializing.

“Rennaugh!”

To his surprise, she stood in the kitchen wearing her formal kirtle, her hair meticulously braided as if prepared to visit the queen. Two pairs of cerulean eyes met him, large and grave.

“What is wrong?” he asked, perplexed.

She told him of the wyvern, of exposing her powers. There would be a tribunal, on the field outside Larvik. The druids were summoned.

His heart hung heavy with fear in his chest. The adrenaline pumped jolts of electricity through his veins.

“We need to leave, now. Pack what’s most necessary, and we’ll leave, before they notice –“

“No.”

His mind halted. He must have misheard.

“No?”

Her posture didn’t falter, her eyes were large and earnest.

“I will go to them. I will not flee from my home.”

His heart raced in his chest.

He cast a glance at Nannah and swallowed his words of fear: they will hurt you – kill you.

“Renn...”

Where his voice raised from his anxiety, hers remained calm, steady as the mountain.

“I need you to trust humanity, Dettlaff, for once. Please.”

His blood flowed slower. Time passed in slow motion as she picked up her jacket from the chair beside her.

“I’m going. Will you follow?”

He took the scene in and forgot to breathe; forgot his conversation with the High priestess. This was the end of the life they have lived since they arrived to Hindarsfjall, and they both knew it. Instead of running, she wished to face the consequences of having hidden her identity.

She threw herself to the wolves, to witness their contempt, these humans who didn’t deserve to lick her boots…

His heart swelled. If she wished to witness these islanders turn their backs on her, to face their hatred, he would stand by her side. And if they raised their weapons to strike at her, he would do whatever it took to protect her.

“I will.”

“I will also follow you.” Small hands sneaked their way into theirs.

“No, Nannah, stay in the cabin with Hogni and Tovni.”

She squeezed their hands, eyes calm.

“We are family. We go together.”

“You’re staying,” Dettlaff grumbled. He did not wish for his child to see her mother humiliated and her father murder the families of her friends.

Despite her protests, they convinced Nannah to stay in the cabin.

 

*

 

In the temple of Freya, Bran lifted his gaze from the notes on his desk with a surprised frown. The Hierophant walked into the room, followed by two brethren and the High priestess in tow.

_What does this mean? Haerviu has just allowed me back to Hindarsfjall, why is he here now?_

“Young Bran. The time has come to purge these islands of unwanted magical presence. You will follow me.”

A slow churning twisted Bran’s gut. He searched for the high priestess’ eyes. She nodded, in silence, jaw clenched.

“Rennaugh.”

“Ah, she is known to you. Well, this very morning, she exposed herself carrying out her magic and there will be a tribunal. We have been summoned by the Jarl an Hindar.”

“How did you get here so fast?

“Never mind that. You will come with us, Bran, to testify.”

Bran’s guts squirmed like they had been replaced by snakes.

He wanted to say no, to ask what they were going to do to her. A creeping fear of the worst stretched his heart. He searched for ways to protest, but his mind echoed blank, like a naked chalkboard.

Bran fought a sense of unrealism as he stood up and followed his brethren towards the gates of the temple.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vampric language in this chapter:  
> Ciartia – the name of the bruxa, meaning “dark, gloomy”.  
> Sveleri-nesna – living creature belonging to the dead.  
> Spureni veres nac atranes; Eclthi, lautni ama – The greetings Regis gives the elder in Blood & Wine, taken from [this blog post](http://gharasham.tumblr.com/post/146123816257/the-ancient-vampire-language-is-etruscan-a-mini).  
> Veitha – careful, fair.  
> Calthi, thu sech ceacnan, Thunina – (again) In this place, she gave birth to a daughter, the first.  
> Aisuna – divine.
> 
> The Elder’s discourse, “I’m old. Things repeat,” etc, is inspired by the words of Morkla, the oldest creature in Fantasia, from The Neverending Story by Michael Ende.
> 
> The [call of the tawny owl](https://www.xn--fgelsng-exae.se/kattuggla/).
> 
> The scene with the owl (to write from the pov of an animal) was inspired by [Marmottine’s](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmottine/pseuds/Marmottine) wonderful [fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13891443/chapters/31964913) about the witcher Moira!


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know the true intent of your journey to Hindarsfjall, witch.”

Chapter warning: abduction.

* * *

 

Omnious clouds darkened the sky above Hindarsfjall.

The people of the island gathered at the glen just outside Larvik, used for popular meetings of importance to the community. People as far from Lofoten had arrived to witness the tribunal. A chill wind tugged at hems of skirts and ruffled in beards and loose strands of hair, the sea whiffed scents of salt and rotten bladderwrack.

Rennaugh and Dettlaff approached the gathering. With straight posture, she let go of his hand and walked first through the crowd that parted to let them through to where the Jarl, Gunnar an Hindar and the Hierophant waited. Dettlaff caught gazes of contempt, fear and, to his surprise, compassion and sorrow. A man spat on the ground but a woman reproached him,

“Behave, idiot!” she hissed.

A woman whispered to her neighbour she’d known Rennaugh was a sorceress ever since her scar magically disappeared.

Dettlaff didn’t know what to make of the naked feelings that flowed from the crowd. His skin prickled with anxiety, but his mate walked on with such calm conduct, he had to do the same.

They reached the three men who represented the power of this island. A spark of regret flashed in the eyes of Gunnar an Hindar, less so in the Jarls’ stony face, but in the small, watery eyes of the druid, who stood tall and slim like a wraith, glinted a spark of satisfaction.

“Rennaugh of no father,” the Jarl began.

Rennaugh frowned, but squared her shoulders.

“You have been found guilty of hiding your magical nature to the people of this island for nearly a decade. You are not an islander by birth but know well enough the traditions of Skellige. Magic, if raw and untamed, must be purged – if related to prayer and meditation, to be confined within the congregations of the priestesses or the druids. You have violated these sacred rules. What have you to say?”

“I am guilty to your accusations, Jarl an Hindar. If the fact that one is born with magical abilities is a crime, then I am a criminal. But please, listen to what I have to say! I’ve never meant to lie! I came to these islands looking for answers regarding my ancestry, my history. I didn’t plan on staying.”

She took a deep breath.

“I fell in love with Hindarsfjall and made it my home. This is where my daughter is born, where I have my family.”

She turned to meet the eyes of Lars, Brigitte, Eigil and his fiancé Anna. Brigitte rubbed one hand over the other, her eyes glossy. Lars held his arm around her shoulders, his lower lip quivering. Eigil glared at the druids, his face like a storm cloud.

“I am sorry I never revealed my secret. I couldn’t unless I made myself estranged to so many loved ones. The history of these islands is full of so much hatred towards magic.”

She let out her hands in a desperate gesture that tugged at Dettlaff’s heart. He hated how she pleaded to these people.

“I have never wished to do harm with my powers! I believe in the good in magic. If you would embrace it, not reject it, it could be used for so much good!”

“Do not speak to the people of Skellige of the good of magic!” the Hierophant boomed. He let out his robed arms to resemble a large, horned crane. Gunnar an Hindar flinched at his outburst.

“Do not remind them of the evils magic has brought to these islands! Of witches killing innocents, of the sorceress who persuaded the high priestess to give up the Brisingamen. Of the theft of the mask of Ouroboros and the garden, dead and defiled!”

He leaned on his walking stick, a carved symbol of the mother on its tip, and narrowed his eyes.

“I know the true intent of your journey to Hindarsfjall, witch. You have planned to infiltrate the priestesses, to convince them of the benefits of magic to succeed the High Priestess after she dies. You have seduced her into your scheme!”

Rennaugh shook her head, an exasperated expression on her face.

“No! That’s not true –“

“Is it not true she has been spending much time at the temple although she is not a priestess, Bran?”

The druid broke free from the crowd, blushing.

A flash of ire ran through Dettlaff at the sight of his feathered mantle.

“Yes, but –“

Bran’s teeth gritted from frustration.

“Ah, confirmed,” the Hierophant interrupted him. Bran shot a devastated gaze at Rennaugh.

The hierophant banged his walking stick to the ground.

“This woman shall be turned to the Queen for trial. I will plead for her execution. She will do no further harm to these lands –“

About to move, Dettlaff stiffened when a loud “No!” echoed through the air. All turned to Eigil, who stepped forward with his hand curled into a trembling fist in the air.

“She has done nothing wrong! It’s not right!”

The Hierophant smirked.

“As suspected, she has seduced her family into believing she means no harm. Your opinion of the matter is biased, Lars’ son, you have little say in the matter.”

“She saved him!”

A young mother with a babe in her arms stepped forward. A few in the crowd gasped. “Marit!” hissed a man and tugged at the hem of her jacket, but she yanked free and turned to the Hierophant again.

“She saved my little boy! He would have died, killed by that monster, if it wasn’t for her – for her magic!”

Dettlaff stared at the woman. Several in the crowd murmured in appreciation. Rennaugh beamed at her, and Eigil, with glossy eyes.

Another voice.

“She saved my mother, that time she had the fever so bad we thought we were going to lose her! But this woman – she healed her!”

More concurring noises.

“The garden – it came alive after she arrived on the islands!”

Scattered gasps erupted among the crowd. It was blasphemous to utter such words. Eigil stepped forward again.

“It’s true! This island has sprung alive ever since she stepped foot on it! Our crops have never been better!”

“You can’t let her die! It’s not right!”

“The wolves have been calm!”

Dettlaff stood rooted to the spot as more protests scattered among the crowd. A few voiced raised concerned about her magic but were drowned out by the affirming shouts to her defence.

Rennaugh interlocked gazes with him. With aching heart, he remembered her words. You need to give the people of Hindarsfjall more credit, Dettlaff.

Unprepared to meet this side of humanity, an unfamiliar warmth spread in his chest.

He stiffened when Nannah ran past him, up to Rennaugh to embrace her. _No_. He couldn’t make his daughter the witness of theirs, and his, violence. He didn’t wish for her to see him as a monster.

Hogni and Tovni appeared and rubbed their furs against his calves, purring, before joining Nannah and Rennaugh.

For the first time since they reached the tribunal, Rennaugh lost her posture and flung her arms around her daughter with a half-hearted reprimand.

“Enough!” the voice of the Hierophant cut like a sword through the commotion. The stirring stopped, people regarded him warily.

“She is a witch! He pointed to Rennaugh with a bony index finger, “and she will go to the queen for trial! Her child will be taken by us druids and sent to the continent!”

At those words, wolf howls echoed through the air. A chill wind blew and ruffled the boughs of the pine trees.

Several in the crowd let out exasperated gasps.

Dettlaff stiffened. Spikes pulled at his skin. He took a few strides forward with a menacing glare on the druid, but Rennaugh grasped his wrist.

“No,” she breathed.

The wind increased to tear at the tree tops.

“You can’t take the girl.” Lars stepped forward. “You go too far, druid.”

“With what right, Haerviu?” the Jarl an Hindar said in a stern voice, “you cannot take the child.”

The leader of the druids darted a wide gaze around.

“Where is my niece, Hierophant?”

All cast surprised eyes to a man in leather jacket and a teal woollen sash. His mouth trembled, embedded in a dark beard. “Four years ago, my brother’s daughter was found to have magic abilities. He agreed to let you send her to the continent but haven’t heard a word from her since. She was only eight! Where is she?” His voice cracked as he pointed towards the druid.

The Hierophant backed a few steps from the outrage of the crowd, two of his fellow druids accompanying him with arms outstretched. Bran followed them with his gaze but made no effort to come to their aid.

The Hierophant bored his narrowing eyes into Rennaugh’s.

“So, it has gone this far,” he hissed, “you have succeeded in seducing the whole island. I should have interfered much sooner, instead of waiting for you to make a mistake.”

He swept an arm out to the upset crowd and raised his voice.

“Will you be so inclined to favour the witch once you learn her husband is a monster - known on the continent as the Beast of Beauclair?”

Her turned a devilish grin to Dettlaff.

A flower of heat bloomed in Dettlaff’s chest.

This is finally how my crimes will be known, he thought, exposed in front of these humans whom I have lived among, in front of my daughter.

_Will she turn from me in disgust?_

The cold thought shot through him. Placing his gaze on Nannah’s back, a landslide of dread and regret fell in him.

 _I deserve it._ _How many children died that night in Beauclair, because of me?_

Nannah moved close to lean in on her father. Rennaugh clenched his hand in hers. The warmth of their bodies reassured him. He met his daughter’s gaze, full of trust, as if she knew what he had done, but had nothing but love and forgiveness for him. His insides made a small jolt at the warmth in her eyes.

“Yes!” the Hierophant triumphantly exclaimed, “I know, without doubt, that he is a vile blood sucker! A -”

His exited grin melted to surprise when Gunnar an Hindar turned a disgusted look at him.

“Master van der Eretein – a monster? Do not malign him, Haerviu. Yes, he is foreign and a bit peculiar, but that is rather common among artists and no cause for such accusation!

“He’s a good man!” someone shouted from the crowd.

“He got rid of the Antlers!” another voice was heard, followed by a cheer.

Stupefied, Dettlaff turned his gaze around as more affirming shouts were heard.

The awe soon dissipated into his normal self-doubt. They think I’m human, he thought, if they knew the truth, they wouldn’t support us like this -

He turned his scowl to the druids before he stumbled from a heavy gush of wind. Startled yelps broke out from the crowd.

One of the druids conjured a whirlwind that surrounded the Hierophant, patches of leaves and grass swirling ever faster around his body. His beard lifted with the current and the blue of his eyes shone.

“You fools!” he bellowed, “If you do not listen, then it is my responsibility to do what is necessary! I am the guardian against all foul influence from that wish to harm you!”

A circle of orange, sizzling light appeared beside the druids. Dettlaff had seen one before, in his own home, conjured by Triss. The druid summoned a portal.

“Fritjof!” yelled Bran at the druid who conjured the portal, but he pretended not to hear him.

Dettlaff held his arm around Rennaugh’s waist, a hand on the shoulder of Nannah. His heart pounded, but in triumph, not fear.

The Hierophant turned his glowing eyes to Nannah.

“I will do whatever it takes,” he hissed and motioned to the druid named Fritjof.

Before they had time to react, Nannah was yanked from them towards the outstretched hand of the druid. She gasped. The hierophant pulled her into a tight grasp against his chest and stepped into the portal with his two druid accomplishes.

With a sizzle, they were gone.

People around them cried out in terror. A child wailed. The cats bolted away into the forest.

Dettlaff didn’t think. He roared, the spikes in his skin exploded, the familiar tug in his fingers and face that told of his transforming burned in sync with the flash of white-hot rage and chasm-deep fear in him.

But he couldn’t move.

Surprised, he gazed down on his hands. His claws tugged to break free, but something held them back.

He met Rennaugh’s eyes. They moved, glossy from exertion. A drop of sweat ran from her temple, and her hand, fingers outstretched to him, trembled.

She was hindering his transformation.

She took one step and buried her forehead against his collar, to make it seem like her convulsions came from the pain of losing their daughter, not the pain from using every strength she had to prevent him from exposing himself to the crowd.

“Please,” she whispered, “she needs us – please.”

He used the last of willpower he had left to gain control over his body. Shaking, he tried to focus on Nannah, on how he must find her, not like this, but controlled, to help her. His daughter needed him.

He had never missed his pack of lesser vampires more than in that moment. He could have sent them to get her, to rip those druids to shreds…

She pulled from him and turned her teary gaze to his when she sensed he had managed to calm down enough not to break out into his monstrous form. A slim trickle of blood ran from her nostril. She wiped it away, hastily.

“Rennaugh?”

Gunnar an Hindar neared them together with Lars, Eigil and Brigitte.

“We are sorry, we never intended for this – no, there is no time for that now. The Hierophant is obviously mad. Take my boat. Go to Ard Skellig, to the great oak. They must have taken her there. I will alert the Queen immediately.”

“I will follow you!” exclaimed Eigil.

Rennaughs shook her head.

“No, stay.” She hastily embraced her cousin, and her aunt and uncle, who wiped his tears with the hem of his sleeve.

“Little Nannah,” he cried. Rennaugh let out a small sound, a pained whine.

Dettlaff grabbed her by the arm. They ran to the harbour.

 

*

 

“Triss!”

“Yennefer?”

The majordomo had alerted Triss about the call of the megascope. She hurried into her room, skin prickling with worry from the disquieted tone in Yennefer’s voice resonating from the magical device.  

“You need to listen carefully, Triss. The High priestess just contacted me. It’s about Rennaugh, and her daughter. We must go to Skellige, now.”

Triss rushed the stairs to tell Geralt of the situation.

As Triss conjured the portal to Ard Skellig, Geralt made a wry face.

“I know you hate portals, but this is important,” Triss said, her expression hard with worry.

“It’s not that,” he muttered as he strung his swords onto his back. “I knew Rennaugh getting together with Dettlaff was a bad idea. I told Regis it would mean a shitload of trouble.”

 

*

 

A larger and sturdier version of the common skiff, Gunnar an Hindar’s boat had a main and jib sail around a mast and a tall tiller to control the rudder. The boat stretched five meters from stern to bow, glistening with tar.

A cracked voice called her name.

A tinge of anger and sadness glinted in her. Bran ran after them. She pushed the feeling away; She needed to get to Nannah, fast. Dettlaff was less controlled.

“You,” her growled, “go back or I swear I’ll –“

“Please,” Bran panted as he reached them, “take me with you.”

Rennaugh grasped Dettlaff’s arms as he made a threatening motion towards the druid.

“We don’t have time, Bran,” she said, her voice clear like crystal.

“You need me to navigate the outcrops underneath the oak. They are labyrinthical – that’s where they have taken her.”

“Is he telling the truth?” Dettlaff grumbled, “Reach out.”

She closed her eyes, eyelids flickering. She reopened her eyes and nodded, both turned to the druid.

Bran flicked his gaze from her face down to her hand that grasped her menacing husband. Dettlaff’s jaw and fists clenched, but at least he didn’t make any movement to jump his throat.

“Do you know how to sail?” he asked.

“We don’t have to,” Rennaugh replied. Bran shook his head in confusion.

“Bran,” she narrowed her eyes, “will you help us find the way through the passages underneath the oak?”

He nodded frantically.

She grasped the gunwale of the boat to climb into it.

“Hurry.”

 

*

 

In the throne room of Kaer Trolde, the pink blush of indignation of queen Cerys’ face deepened to a crimson tone of disapproval as she was told of the druids’ actions on Hindarsfjall. The carrier pigeon from the Jarl an Hindar had arrived merely minutes before.

“The girl – is she known to have magic abilities?”

“Not that we know of,” her chamberlain answered, “it seems she was abducted to humiliate her mother.”

“He goes too far. Prepare my horse and alert the guard. We ride to the great oak to fetch the child.”

 _What have I done?_ The thought flashed a hot streak through her chest as she fastened the bindings of her armor and strapped her sword to her hip.

She’d never wished Ermion was still alive as fiercely as she did right then.

 

*

 

Holding the tiller, Bran directed his eyes to the main head of the sail to determine how to gain more speed to reach Ard Skellig as fast as possible. He squinted against the whiffs of saltwater that sprayed his face – he hadn’t controlled a rudder this bulky before. The wind was fair, but he didn’t think they would reach Ard Skellig before next morning. Even so, he was determined to sail all night if necessary.

He held and eye out for sea monsters. He had no idea how to handle them should they attack.

He glanced on Rennaugh, heart sinking at her expression. Her husband stood with his arm around her, and she accepted his embrace like it was the only thing that prevented her from falling apart.

 _Will I ever be a person to lean on in such a way, for anyone?_ Bran’s eyes burned.

The couple discussed something before she softly nodded and took a step forward. To Bran’s surprise, she lifted her palms and closed her eyes.

His eyes widened. The boat lifted from the waves and soared through the air, several feet above water. They flew into the evening air in such a pace the wind broke forth tears in his eyes. The sails fluttered upset at this new form of sailing.

It didn’t take long before the first echidnae attacked.

Bran widened his eyes at the sight of Dettlaff who turned into a clawed monster and sliced through screeching echidnaes, blood and feathers splattering the sails – _Am I going mad?_ His head spun in disbelief.

Rennaugh still controlled the boat. She stood with her hands outstretched, the air above her palms pulsating.

Bran stumbled and landed on his behind into the hull of the deck and stared wide-eyed at the vampire who slowly returned to his human form, sending him a glare.

“You,” Bran croaked, “all this time.”

“Yes,” Rennaugh affirmed in her husband’s place, “all this time.”

Bran remembered one day at the temple, when Dettlaff and Nannah came to meet Rennaugh, how waves of jealousy lapped at his heart as he observed the little family. He too wished to become a father, to have a child embrace him the loving way that dark man was embraced, to give and receive that kind of love. The duality of shame and relief in knowing his heart’s desire still tugged at his insides – knowing that desire meant he had made a mistake when he joined the druids.  

Nannah’s feared expression at the tribunal, when the hierophant yanked her from her parents grasp, came to him. Her little gasp, that short inhale of fear. He said nothing. He didn’t know how to convey his understanding of monstrosity; to hurt a child, and what it wasn’t; to care for her.

As they soared through the air towards the southern coastline of Ard Skellig, he prayed for the Modron to watch over Nannah, and to watch over them.

 

*

 

Regis reached the outskirts of Vizima when the sky darkened above him by a murder of ravens. Mouth open, he tilted his head up. The air flowed thick with dark birds; ravens, crows, jackdaws and rooks. Their combined, raspy caws and purrs drowned out all other sound. A chill wind crept up his spine.

Two ravens landed on his shoulders to purr their warnings. His whole body went cold.

He immediately dematerialized and directed his energies towards the coast.

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Give us our daughter, druid.”

Chapter warning: this is a dark and violent chapter where the character death tag pertains. Please note that I haven’t used the MCD tag for a reason. I am open to discuss tagging of this fic at anytime.

 

* * *

 

Rennaugh, Dettlaff and Bran reached the southern coast cliffs of Ard Skellig before the sun set into the ocean. The sky was darkened by clouds, but the orange orb of the sun colored the sea in a glittering, intense hue that came in contrast to the chilling wind and the falling spikes of light rain. The sharp color of the rays caused Bran’s insides to jolt in worry. Their stinging color seemed unnatural, as if the sky itself protested the recent happenings in the glen outside Larvik.

Rennaugh planted their boat not far from the Great oak. Bran held his breath, turning his head around to see if anyone had witnessed their flight. They hurried to the entrance jammed between the roots of the oak, a large, iron-clad wooden gate, and tugged the handle.

The door remained shut, barred from the inside.

Desperately, Bran pushed his shoulder at its non-budging frame, huffing from frustration.

“Please, Bran, stand aside.” Rennaugh curled her hand to a fist and pulled it in a jerking motion. The gate broke apart in splinters, the iron groaned as the softer wood broke loose from its grip.

Gaping, although he should expect her to be able to do anything by now, Bran stared as she and Dettlaff strode past him.

“Hurry, Bran,” she said, hard. He shook off his amazement and obeyed.

They entered a corridor that widened to a large outcrop, used for ceremonies. Rennaugh and Dettlaff didn’t care to take in their surroundings.

“Where have they taken her?” Dettlaff grumbled. Bran’s heart rate raced.

“I can’t be sure.” He flicked his neck to his side. “That door leads to the catacombs. They’re vast, enormous. They were built by –“

“Think, Bran.” Rennaugh pinned him with her gaze, eyes large and sad.

His mind went numb. _Of course_.

“The pond,” he said.

“What?”

“Far down, you will eventually reach a pond. It is a beautiful place, I’ve only been to there once. The water stretches from one end to another of a grotto, large enough to be called a cavern hall. No one knows the depths of the pond…”

He went cold, determined.

“Follow me.”

 

*

 

With a steady step, they entered the catacombs underneath the great oak Gedyneith, determined and with heavy hearts. They failed to notice the druids that attacked from their hiding places in nooks of the corridors, until it was too late.

Dettlaff dematerialised and reappeared to slice one of their attackers down, before one of the men threw a leather band over Rennaugh’s head and tightened its grip around her neck. The hide on the band shifted in color as if lit from within.

Her powers drained from her like the contents of a broken wine-skin. She cried out in a choked sound.

Dettlaff stopped flat, and icy shower of fear falling inside him. A druid held a knife in his hand, its edge on her throat. The druid sweated and panted from fear but grasped her steadily.

Held by the arms by one of his brethren, Bran shouted and swore, until another druid threw a fist in his face. He fell slack into robed arms.

“Do you wish to see your daughter?” the attacker hissed. “Then you keep calm and do as we say.”

 

*

 

Bran had told the truth; they were taken further down to a vast room, where the Hierophant awaited them with his band of brethren next to a glistening pond. The walls shone from the light of the crystal-clear waters that flickered as if a star once landed in it and kept its glow from underneath the surface.

“Where is she?”

Dettlaff’s voice resonated with such a low and threatening timbre it could have sent a ripple on the surface of the pond.

The leader of the druids ignored him and turn his eyes to Rennaugh, still forcibly held in a trembling grip, her throat covered by the fluorescent leather and the knife held by the druid.

“Welcome, ixa. I believe you have encountered this hide before.” He fixed his gaze on her, brows knitted. The horns on his cap rose tall like the Leshen she once met. “It is the last of the old, prepared leather from the lizards us druids have preserved. I gave a sample of it to someone you’ve met.”

His teeth showed, glistening in a smile.

“Don’t worry, us druids have nurtured the lizards throughout the centuries. We have plenty more.”

He motioned to a wicker basket, opened by one of his lackeys. Nothing happened at first, until two grey reptiles, long as a man’s arm, crawled out the lip of the basket. They blinked their small, yellow eyes. Their skin didn’t shine and shift in color like the leather on her neck, but stretched grey and dull over their tendons. Rennaugh shuddered just as well.

The Hierophant motioned in a sign to let the animals crawl back into the basket and returned to her.

“Tell me, ixa. For how long have you planned to venture to Skellige? After you left Cintra? Even before that?”

“There was never a plan. I just wanted to understand. Please – give us our daughter.” Her voice strained from the band around her throat.

“To understand?” the Hierophant tilted his head. “Understand anything but the atrocity of your heritage? Do you think you know the legacy of the vampires and the Dathmori? What lies has Sigrdrifa told you?”

“I know very little. The ixa’s revered the mother but used black magic. Their last norna destroyed a village after her daughter was found killed…”

“Your association bred monsters!” he spat, “they claimed to search for the key to eternal life, and in their endeavour, they murdered the children they bore that did not fit their idea of the perfect witch, or perfect monster!”

She stared at him. His words seeped into her mind. Beside her, Dettlaff trembled with withheld rage, but she cast him a glance to urge him not to attack.

“I don’t understand,” she croaked.

“Do you not?” the hierophant’s voice chilled her bones, “the vampires and the witches forged an alliance to create immortal children. The ones that didn’t show signs of neither magic nor immortality were – discarded. Killed!”

The druid’s words cut into her guts. Somehow, she believed him. A creeping suspicion the legend of the ixa’s held some dark secret was now confirmed.

“I didn’t know –“ she whispered, “Yennefer, she never…” Tears amassed in her eyes.

Dettlaff made a movement towards her, but the druid that was holding her shot him a warning glance and tightened the leather against her throat.

The nostrils of the Hierophant flared.

“You admit it! That you and her – the very crone that killed the sacred garden! have planned this the whole time, with your monster, to revive the Dathmori and begin you experiments on children again?”

The shrill tone of his voice shredded her mind. She shook, but her eyes burned.

“No! Never! But you – in your frenzied attempt to stop this legend, you have hurt children! The girls found to be mages! They’re dead, aren’t they?”

Her throat ached from the leather strap and from the rasp in her voice.

“Do you think, that I would allow the genetical remnants of your legacy continue to thrive? And risk it all to happen again?”

The hierophant glared at her. A faint electrical wind lifted his long, grey hair and beard, revealing a flask behind his robes. It resembled a normal wine bottle, but in it swirled and tossed a living wind.

With a motion from the hierophant, the elemental broke free with a whistle. It settled beside the druid, placid and calm, like a tamed storm cloud.

“The djinn,” she whispered, “you sent the storm. You tried to kill us.”

“Yes!” he yelled, “I made a mistake! I merely asked the Djinn to attack your ship. I should have wished for it to sink your vessel to the floor of the ocean! For you and your monster lover to never reach these islands. I will not be so foolish to make that mistake again.”

Bran came alive, moaning from his position on the floor.

Haerviu’s face turned to stone.

“I have only done what is vested in me to protect these islands. From your monstrous breed!”

She flinched. The knife on her throat bit into her flesh and caused a drop of blood trickle down her neck.

Dettlaff growled, a guttural sound, but fought his transformation.

“Give – us – our – daughter,” he said through gritted teeth, turned to the Hierophant.

“You may see your monster spawn again, if you behave. But first –“

The druids motioned them to another corridor.

 

*

 

Violently pushed inside a large outcrop, heavy stone doors closed behind Rennaugh and Dettlaff with a dull thud. Bound to her wrists by the leather strap, the loss of her powers echoed in her veins. Their breaths bounced against grey stone walls.

“Do you think you know him, ixa?” a deep voice penetrated the thick air of the outcrop.

They lifted their heads to understand where the words came from.

Rennaugh followed Dettlaff’s gaze to a series of holes in the stone walls, above their heads.

“You know nothing,” the voice continued. She recognized the hierophant’s voice now, resonating as if he spoke from the bottom of a tomb.

“I will show you the true form of your monster husband. The real beast of Beauclair.”

Their eyes met, hers confused, his pained. She got up on her feet and lifted her bound wrists to him.

He made a motion to come to her aid, when a whistling sound darted past her ear. A sharp pain exploded in her shoulder.

She gasped, teeth gritting. The arrow rasped her upper arm and left a cut deep enough for her to see stars. She instinctively lifted her hands to cover the bleeding wound but only managed to reach up to her bicep with her wrists bound.

Dettlaff snarled, and turned towards direction of the shot. From a natural stone parapet above them, three archers stood positioned with their bows, ready to fire.

Why are they doing this? Rennaugh thought, confusion and fear tugging at her chest.

Another arrow whizzed through the air, but Dettlaff caught it and broke it to splinters.

The worst sound to ever reach her ears caused Rennaugh to cry out.

The sound of Nannah’s voice, screaming in fear or agony, reached them from somewhere outside the room.

Dettlaff bellowed her name and transformed to jump at the parapet, when the archers strained their bowstrings and fired simultaneously. He shielded Rennaugh with his body, all three arrows settled in his back. He let out a strained groan, his blood trickled onto the stone floor.

Surprised, Rennaugh noticed strings of sleek fibres attached to the arrowheads.

She let go of that revelation as another cry pierced the air of the cave.

“No!” Rennaugh screamed, her eyes bleary from tears, when Dettlaff pushed her from him. Lifted in the air, she landed against the stone walls, the air pushed from her lungs and the back of her head aching from the impact. When she opened her eyes, she let out a strangled scream.

Dettlaff continued to transform. Meaty extensions broke out from the skin on his back, a pair of enormous wings unfurled above his head. Another pair of clawed arms protruded from his neck. His monstrous face, with the wrinkled snout resembling that of a wolf, transformed into a shapeless skull; his eyes vanished into leathery skin, his cheeks sleek and glistening. A fanged mouth foamed with saliva, until he bent his head into his chest, and flapped with his large wings against the ground with a boom. The wind gushed dust into her face, she shielded her eyes with her arms, still bound by the wrists.

She lowered her hands and shook with trepidation.

The creature in front of her – her lover, her mate – had transformed into the very incarnation of fear and fury.

Had her despair taken corporeal form, it would have resembled this. She understood the depths of his pain now.

“Do you see!” the murky voice of the Hierophant resonated through the room, “do you see what you have meddled yourself with? What you let into you bed? This is the monster that killed all those people in Beauclair, that fooled you that he was human, that sired your child, _ixa_!”

He uttered the last word in a spit.

She got up on her feet, trembling. The winged creature in front of her lifted its throat to the air and cried, a sound that turned her bones to liquid.

“Or have you always known?” The Hierophants’ derisive voice continued, “you are of a breed of monster fuckers, after all! And your child is the spawn of the devil!”

“Dettlaff,” Rennaugh whispered.

He trashed his wings, paying no attention to her, and threw himself at the holes in the wall where the voice came from. The room shook from the impact.

More arrows fired. Dettlaff roared in pain from the impact but turned to the parapet and in such a speed her eyes hardly detected the motion. He landed on the railing and grabbed the first archer before he could retreat into the opening on the other end.

Dettlaff ripped the archer apart. The lackey’s scream snapped silent as his head severed from his body. The second archer met the same fate.

“Dettlaff!” she raised her voice and suppressed the nausea that curled in her from the sight of the dismembered bodies. Blood splattered on the walls and ran down to pool on the floor.

He must have heard her, for the leathery body of the creature on the parapet stiffened. The last of the archer seized the momentum and pulled the string attached to the arrow that penetrated Dettlaff’s body. With the bloodied arrow in his hand, he ran towards the opening and barely managed to close it shut before Dettlaff flung his body against the door, hissing.

“We have what we need!” exclaimed the voice from the openings, “leave him to kill her!”

Rennaugh stood still, eyes locked on Dettlaff as he trashed and lunged at the closed door, snarling and spitting. His screams nearly shattered her ears.

She whispered his name, once more.

Once more, he stiffened.

His enormous winged body slid down the parapet to land on the floor beneath, facing her.

Shaking, she drew nearer to him.

“Please,” she said. “Dettlaff, please come back to me. I need you. She needs us.”

His chest heaved in agitated breath, but he didn’t move. He observed her with his non-existent eyes.

“Please,” she repeated, and took a step closer.

“Help me.”

The whispered plea that escaped his throat reverberated like it came from within an empty barrel. She exhaled sharply in relief. He was still with her.

“I will, if you help me first.” She circled his body to hide them from the view of the holes in the stone wall and stretched out her wrists.

At first, he didn’t move, except for his wings that slowly settled on his back. With his clawed extra arm, he slashed at her hands.

She closed her eyes on instinct but opened them as soon as her wrists broke free from the straps. First, she feared he’d slashed her skin, but the blood came from the archers, still dripping from his claws.

Her powers settled back into her veins, purring with light.

She reached for his arm. He flinched.

“Trust me,” she said softly. He relaxed and let her take his hand. His chest heaved with his breath.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he wheezed.

Her heart aching, she clenched her jaw and fixated what she believed were his eyes.

“Don’t say that. You are what you are. Monster, vampire, person – I love you, Dettlaff.”

He slouched, his large wings furled around his body.

“And I you.”

His back was bleeding, struggling to regenerate the wounds from the arrows. What had they done to him? His blood soaked her hands down to her elbows as she examined his body, trembling. She pulled at an arrowhead still planted in his back and he let out a deep grunt. She held it in front of her – what was this metal?

Rennaugh wished she still had her healing powers, but they were never hers, but Nannahs…

Nannah.

A thought struck her, a realization what to do. She slowly lifted her hand to her mouth and licked his blood from her arm in a long stroke.

He drew in breath.

The metal flavour of his blood seeped into her mind, filled her veins with a creeping, but bolstering sensation. It made her stronger. Her mind reeled, oh gods, this felt so good… with a faint, crisp sound, the wound on her shoulder slowly closed and stopped bleeding.

“Here.” She pointed to the place where her neck met her shoulder. Her eyes pierced him. “I trust you.”

He hesitated, his large, skull-like head swayed back and forth.

She placed her hands around the naked skull, leaning her forehead against his. “Hurry. We need to go to her.”

His mouth dripped with saliva as he sunk his teeth into her neck and drank, one, two mouthfuls of her blood. She gritted her teeth from the pain, but the feeling of rightness also sang in her; this would help, they would make everything alright.

He let go of her neck, his clawed hands still holding her arms. He trembled with radiating, newfound strength. His body regained color, the muscles of his arms bent in bolstered energy.

“Let us go, to get our daughter.” She lifted her hands to his leathery chest. Raw energy flowed from her palms.

He twitched and groaned as he transformed.

 

*

 

Bran stirred. The straps that bound him gnawed into his wrists. Stars danced in from of his vision as he attempted to stand up, head throbbing with pain.

“Hierophant,” he rasped as his vision cleared, “Please, this can’t be what the order stands for.”

He cast a desperate gaze to his brethren.

“You – this isn’t right. A child – she’s…“

“The result of hundreds of years of breeding with monsters to achieve a bastard race that could live forever.” The Hierophant leaned over him.

“This is what you saw in your vision, Bran. The day we finally make these islands free of this curse, this legacy of monster breeders, this _stain_ on our lands!”

“No,” Bran shivered, his voice cracked, “this isn’t what I saw. I saw – pain, but also; balance. Peace.”

“Yes, balance!” growled the Hierophant, “That can only be achieved when magic is purged from these lands!”

“Then what do you call Fritiof?” Bran cried, “He is a mage too, is he not?”

“That is different. He uses his powers in favour of the goddess –“

“Hypocrite!” Bran spat.

His ear rang from the impact of a hard slap.

The Hierophant jerked his head to his side by a noise; Bran turned his head to see what had caught his attention.

Rennaugh came out from a large crack in the wall, holding Dettlaff’s arm on her shoulders while she supported his body, limp and barely walking. She bled from a wound in her arm. Her hair frizzed, dull from stone dust.

What had they done to him? Bran gaped. How had they managed to subdue him – a vampire?

All druids positioned themselves in a large halfmoon with their leader in the centre to face the two broken people limping into the hall.

The hierophant turned pale as if he had seen a ghost. His chin held high, his eyes wide and blood shot, he shouted an order to release the lizards immediately.

A druid lifted the lid of the basket and the lizards crawled out, drawn to the light emanating from the pond.

Rennaugh helped Dettlaff onto his knees. Weak from the transformation, his body struggled to heal severed tendons and muscles, to rebuild skin and blood vessels. She faced the men in front of her.

“Will you listen, ixa, to how I will set everything right? How I will bring balance to these islands?” The Hierophant strode towards her. His robe rustled in the dust of the stone floor. She faces him, shoulders squared.

“Give us our daughter, druid.”

Dettlaff raised to his feet, moaning, and arm around his waist.

The Hierophants eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching.

“Your monster spouse. He will agree to stay put. Only then will you see your daughter.”

The hierophant took several steps to a large bundle of cloth that hung over an oval structure. Underneath the cloth, he revealed an iron cage, large enough to fit a man. No – not iron, Rennaugh thought, the same metal they use for the arrowheads.

“Do you recognize this? From the vampire ruins in Touissant.”

Dettlaff’s eyes grew wide.

The Hierophant smiled at his expression.

“The vampire will agree to stay in the cage.”

Dettlaffs fists opened and closed. He glared at the druid but soon turned a pained gaze at Rennaugh. Her expression mirrored his. He nodded and walked slowly towards the cage. A druid locked him inside, the cage door closed with a clang.

“Bring us the girl.”

The hierophant motioned to one of his lackeys, who walked into one of the many crevices of the hall.

He came out with Nannah in a firm grip, a dagger in his hand.

Dettlaff cried out. Rennaugh rushed forwards but froze mid step by a movement of the Hierophant’s hand. The druid placed the dagger, point down at the back of Nannah’s neck.

“You are a monster!” Rennaugh cried, bleary-eyed.

Nannah stumbled, but didn’t cry. Her hands were bound. She breathed through her nose, her lips pale and eyes wide, gleaming from the light in the pond.

“Please, don’t hurt them.” Nannah’s little voice trembled. She kept her eyes fixed on Rennaugh. Dettlaff trembled from withheld rage, jaw clenching and hands tightly curled around the bars of his cage.

The child turned her gaze to her father.

“They are our Great Mother’s children, just like you.”

Dettlaff frowned. He wished to speak, but something in Nannah’s eyes prevented him.

“Don’t be afraid,” she whispered, so low he only caught her words through reading her lips. His whole mind went still, as if standing in the eye of a storm. How could her eyes convey such peace, in this moment?

The Hierophant snorted, a friendly sound through his nostrils.

“A wise child, and yet so misled. It is clear us druids need to attend to the education of our young with more vigour from now on, and not leave such an important task to the priestesses.”

Rennaugh gritted her teeth. She fought a desperate urge to kill this man in front of her, to take out his entire guard of druids in one swipe with her hand, to crush bone and rip flesh. With all her might, she fought the person she didn’t wish to become, even to save her own life. She fought to remain the person who her daughter trusted and loved.

Something told her it wouldn’t be easy to crush Dettlaff’s cage, that the metal resisted her powers. But if she could get him free, to pounce on these men and slash their throats - together, they could easily kill all of them.

She stifled a whine.

_I promised never to ask him to kill for me._

For their daughter? She cast Dettlaff a desperate gaze, aching. Did he not also wish to remain the person Nannah loved and trusted, to not be a murderer anymore?

All this seemed unreal. A part of her refused to believe these men wished to hurt a child.

Rennaugh assembled all her might to calm her voice as she spoke to Nannah.

“It’s alright, my little starling. No one is going to hurt you.”

She turned her eyes to the Hierophant, pleading to his humanity in a last desperate attempt.

“Please,” her voice trembled, “she’s just a little girl. A child. Let her go.”

The druid made no motion to let Nannah go.

“Please,” Rennaugh begged, “take me instead. It is me you hate, whom you’ve wanted dead from the beginning. Nannah has nothing to do with this; she’s innocent.”

“No,” Dettlaff growled from his cage. “I’m the monster who got away from these islands, it’s me you want dead. Let her go.”

A flash of pain flickered in the Hierophant’s eyes.

“Sometimes, sacrifices must be made for the greater good.” He eyed Rennaugh. “Your kind knew this well. We have sworn to instil balance in this world, to liberate us from monsters who would hold us as cattle or playthings for breeding. Even if it means the order will perish.”

From his robes, he pulled a small, oval pill. It gleamed dark from the light of the pond.

“Do you recognize this?”

An ampoule. Her mind reeled from recognition. The bruxa in the Amell mountains, who nearly died from such an ampoule injected in her neck.

“Ah, you do,” the Hierophant’s eyes gleamed, still pinned on Rennaugh.

“You killed the vampires.”

“Why yes! A noble feat, no less. For a long time, funded by Her Excellency the Duchess of Touissant herself. This is the last step of the process – a toxin potent enough to kill a higher vampire. This will cancel the regeneration process. All I needed was higher vampire blood in its frenzied form.”

He shot a jeering glare at Dettlaff.

“This child’s existence threatens balance, for ever. But this is the day the dark reign of vampires on these islands - no, the world! ends.”

The Hierophant’s smirk died when the ampoule flung from his hand and crashed against the stone walls, leaving a black, oozing stain.

Bran gasped.

Rennaugh stood, arm raised, fingers splayed in the air.

“No!” Haerviu squealed, “you witch!” His eyes burned. “Why aren’t the lizards killing your powers?”

“It was never the lizards, druid. Let my daughter go.”

His lips shook in trepidation, but his fists trembled from rage. The druid holding Nannah procured another ampoule, clenching it in his fist.

“One move, one twist of your finger, ixa, and she’d dead.”

A cord snapped inside Rennaugh. All her fear and panic shifted to rage. A wellspring of black ink, fiery like the sun, sprawled in her veins and ignited her brain. The liquid of her powers coursed heatedly through her veins. Some of the druids backed away from her, eyes wide.

“You will let my daughter go, or I will raze these islands to the ground. Do you hear me, druid? I will call upon the ocean to swallow Skellige, I will lift the mountains from the earth; I will destroy this world, if you do not give me my child.”

 

*

 

Cerys’ stallion danced on his hooves as the ground underneath them trembled. A few of her men’s horses whinnied. They were an hour away from the great oak. Another tremble.

Instinctively, she unsheathed her sword.

The hairs on her neck stood up.

From the east, a mountainous ice troll barged against them, roaring. The sound clattered her armour and thundered against her eardrums. Some of the horses ran in panic.

She cried out for her nearest men and jumped from her horse.

Cerys had never met a rabid ice troll before. They were normally placid, sentient creatures, albeit unintelligent. They seldom ventured near human settlements. The body of the troll shone in a dull blue skin, hard like granite. In Hakland, they were called golems.

The sight of its massive, stony appearance chilled Cerys. It must be a sign, she thought. Something is wrong.

The troll swung its large fist. She dodged and rolled on the ground. Cerys’ most trusted soldier, Kristin, cried “My queen!” and ran towards the frenzied troll.

Cerys cried out in protest as she came to her feet, but in vain. The troll lifted Kristin in his fist and in a single blow, he crushed her body against the ground. Cery’s stomach sank at the sound of screaming metal and broken bones. The fear in Kristin’s eyes as her body lifted in the air gnawed at the Queen’s heart.

The rest of her guards circled the troll to avoid his thrashing arms.

Cerys clenched her fingers around the hilt of her sword. She didn’t wish to kill, but this was no moment for hesitation.

The ground shook from the troll’s onslaught at her men.

With a roar, she ran jumped the monster’s back. It recoiled forward and slammed its stony fist into the ground. Cerys climbed up the back of the troll, gripped her sword with both hands, and planted it to the hilt in the exposed soft flesh of its neck.

She yanked the sword out with gritted teeth and tasted the blood that sprayed her front with a triumphant roar.

 

*

 

The hierophant lifted his chin, a satisfied gleam in his eyes.

“Yes. Let the people of these islands see what you really are, ixa. The world will never trust a sorceress again.”

Dettlaff called her name, but she did not hear him.

The Hierophant’s eyes widened as the air around Rennaugh shuddered and blackened.

He made a small, quick signal with his hand.

“Hierophant, no!” Bran yelled.

His lackey slashed the dagger at the base of Nannah’s neck. She inhaled sharply.

The dry dust of stone floor eagerly drank the drops of blood that fell from the dagger.

Rennaugh reacted on an instant, but the druid mage was faster. A blast of icy wind flung her against the walls with a crisp thud. Dettlaff cried and shouted, shook the bars of his cage. She scrambled onto her knees, bones chilled and muscles screaming, as the druid holding Nannah inserted the ampoule into her wound.

The screams of Rennaugh, Dettlaff and Bran echoed in the hall.

 

*

 

Cries of surprise and horror pierced the air of Trolde harbour as a violent shaking of the ground sent people falling. A man jumped to grab a child and rolled away in time to avoid being hit by a crumbling merchants’ stand.

 

*

 

Nannah’s body went rigid in the druid’s arms. His brethren sprang from her. Her mouth opened to in a soundless scream, her eyes wide and unseeing. The veins underneath her skin contrasted dark from her pale complexion. Rennaugh fought her paralysis as her daughter’s raven hair whitened, from the roots, out to the tips.

Nannah turned slack, her chin dropped to her chest.

The Hierophant took her in his arms, gave her a short look of disdain, and threw her into the pond.

The splash of her daughter’s body entering the waters etched into Rennaugh’s soul.

Nannah’s hair flowed like pale seaweed as she sunk into the depths.

 

*

 

The people walking through the temple grounds simultaneously froze when all the birds silenced at once. The great bough of Dathi shuddered and greyed on an instant, before it fell to the temple ground with a ruffled bang. The flowers withered to ash, together with the herbs and the bushes. The water in the fountain petered out to a slow drip, until they flowed no more.

People gasped as they gazed up to the sky to see the rising moon darken to a blood red, fiery disc.

 

*

 

A dark matter flowed from Rennaugh’s palms as her body hovered over the ground. Currents of electricity lifted the hair from her shoulders, blood trickled from her nose.

Her eyes turned black, unseeing. The whole interior of the outcrop shook, the walls crackled, parts of the roof caved in. A druid fell, smashed by the impact of a heavy stone raining from the sky.

 

*

 

The great oak of Gyndeith exploded, along with the hill it stood upon.

Cerys, still panting from her combat with the troll, twitched her head at the sound.

“By the Modron’s breath,” she whispered.

The people of Skellige cried out in shock as the waters of the sea retreated from the coast and left the armada of the Skellige triremes standing on the naked ocean floor. The islands shook, trees and buildings fell over, dark skies reddened like blood from a fiery moon.

Gigantic waves neared the lands.

“Ragh nar Roogh!” a man screamed, “It’s the end of days!”

 

*

 

In the catacombs, a loud bang sent splinters of shale and dust through the room. A fireball wrecked the cliff to dust; the rock fizzed and cracked from the impact. Yennefer of Vengerberg stepped into the hall from a large hole in the outcrop, followed by Triss. Geralt stepped in last, whisking his gloved hand in front of him to stir the dust of the crushed stone, his other hand clenched around the hilt of his steel sword. All three struggled to stay on their feet from the shaking ground.

“That’s quite enough,” Yennefer said stonily.

A light emanated from outstretched hand and reflected in the shining stars of her necklace. She directed it at Rennaugh and mumbled a spell, squinting.

Veils of pink light enveloped Rennaugh’s body until it squeezed her tight enough to enter her. The black left her eyes. She gasped.

Rennaugh fell on to the floor.

All stilled, the ground shook no more.

“Such a hazard,” Yennefer said, her narrow eyes on Rennaugh’s body.

It all happened so fast, the druids reacted after she fell. The first to fling themselves at the sorceress were stopped by a roaring wall of fire, conjured by Triss. Another druid was quickly dealt with by Geralt.

The Hierophant smirked and directed his gaze to Yennefer. She eyed the air elemental by his side with a scowl.

“Ugh, not again,” Geralt groaned as the sight of the Djinn.

“I knew you would come, Yennefer of Vengerberg,” the Hierophant said with a satisfied smirk, “You have been hellbent on destroying these islands since you first arrived here.”

“Preposterous,” she retorted, her voice sharp, “I believe I just saved your precious islands.”

His smile faded to a menacing expression.

“I saved my last wish for you, witch.”

He pointed his long index finger towards the trio.

“Kill the sorceress!”

The Djinn roared and flung several crackling ropes of light at Yennefer, who quickly averted them with a shielding spell.

“You old fool,” she hissed, her violet eyes gleaming, “twice I have fought and defeated a djinn! You have nothing against me!”

The djinn directed a gush of icy wind against her strong enough to push her on her behind. Triss yelled her name, but Yennefer got up and pushed back. The djinn let out another roar, loud like a winter’s storm.

Meanwhile, Geralt and Triss fought attacking druids. Yennefer sent a violent wave of lightning at the air elemental, which retreated through the cave entrance to flee into the other hall with a shriek.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Yennefer hissed through gritted teeth and followed the djinn through the gate.

Geralt cried her name and searched for Triss’ eyes. She nodded frantically, _go, go after her!_

He ran to the entrance and through it. Triss got blasted onto her back by a powerful spell.

Tiny stars flickered in Triss’ vision as she got up on her feet.

“You’re going to regret that,” she mumbled, eyes narrowed to the nearest druid who summoned another spell, shaking like a leaf. They had decimated the number of druids greatly, only three were left with their leader, plus this one, a sorcerer.

With a twist of her hand, she his robes aflame. He screeched and flailed his arms. The smell of burnt flesh and hair filled the outcrop. The druid ran for the pond. Squinting, she intensified her spell, and with a howl, the druid burst in to violent flames, his skin blackened like coal.

Triss swayed in a moment of indecision. With aching heart, she surveyed the body of Rennaugh outstretched before the leader of the druids, the sleeve of her dress drenched with blood. She breathed, but faintly. Dettlaff trashed and bellowed in a cage.

A druid, younger than the rest and bound by his wrists, cried and sniffled from his position on his knees.

She couldn’t see Nannah anywhere _– please dear Melitele, say she’s unhurt…_

Yennefer’s scream reached Triss from the next outcrop. She turned and ran to the cave entrance.

Triss reached the other hall, panting. Yennefer was on her behind again, furiously holding a spell against a vicious onslaught of lightning from the djinn’s storm cloud body. Her raven hair glistened grey from ice and she bled from a cut in her eyebrow. Geralt stood beside her, parring shards of ice, flung from the elemental, with his sword. He cast the aard sign at the djinn, which made it halt, only to swell with agitation and summon more ice shards.

It hummed, grew larger with a roar that caused the walls of the hall to shake. The bustle knocked a pilaster apart that fell with a load bang against the dust of the marble floor.

Triss hardly noticed the commotion. _A djinn will never stop until it has fulfilled the wish of its master._

Her whole mind went numb as she knew exactly what to do.

There was no time for several spells. She was too exhausted to cast more than one.

She kept her eyes fixated on Geralt, her hand outstretched, as the Djinn burst and released thousands of silvery shards across the room. Each one directed at Yennefer and Geralt melted against a fiery shield, like a bubble of lava surrounding them.

Several shards pierced Triss’ body. One ran through her lung, another her heart. She fell to the floor.

A memory took hold of Triss. Standing on top of Sodden Hill, she faced an ocean of black soldiers marching on Upper Sodden. A crackling on her chest prickled her skin like thousands of needles, her nose scrunched from the odour of her own burnt flesh. Her fear, like slithering black snakes in her heart, her insides squirmed from the meaninglessness of it all, all this death…

Triss remembered the words of Nenneke, the High priestess of the Melitele temple. _Everyone has their decisions and everyone has their hills, Triss. Everyone. You cannot escape your own._

She would take her place among the fourteen, as it had been prophesied to her.

She smiled as Yennefer grabbed a hold of her spell, twisted it into a lance of fire, and threw it into the heart of the djinn. It exploded with a large bang, its roar further broke a few pilasters, clouds of dust erupted ad left a strong smell of burnt ash and acid.

Yenna, Triss thought, you are so strong. Take care of him for me.

Her vision darkened. Triss fell into a numbing nothing.

Geralt ran towards her, crying her name.

“Triss! No, no, no – “

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as I know, the first one to write about dalvinite, the metal from the vampire plane of existence, as having the ability to hurt vampires in the witcher world, was [Nydharani](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nydharani/pseuds/Nydharani) in their fic [Of Crimson Red And Icy Blue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11201973/chapters/25018890). 
> 
> The quote by Nenneke is taken from The Lady Of The Lake. 
> 
> Song inspiration – [Down by the water](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lbq4G1TjKYg), by the incomparable PJ Harvey.
> 
> [My tumblr](www.namesonboats.tumblr.com). Come yell at me, or cry with me, if you wish.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything in the hall stilled, as if even the stars held their breaths.

Dettlaff’s body frantically struggled to regenerate, leaving him in a state of agony, as if his nerve ends were replaced by stinging wasps. He cried Rennaugh’s name, in vain. She lay motionless on the cavern floor, her face covered by her sweat-sleek hair.

Shadowed by the horned appearance of the Hierophant, Dettlaff squinted against the light of the moon that fell from the opened chasm above them.

“Tell me,” the druid said calmly, “in your final moment, does death come to you as a relief, or as a burden?”

He held a dagger in his hand, and in the other, another black ampoule that glistened from the light of the pond.

Dettlaff met the Hierophant’s gaze. He didn’t answer. His soul was a void.

“Know that what I do, what I have always done, is to instil balance. Your kind was never meant to tread the soil of this earth. I merely execute the Mother’s will.” The hierophants voice crooned, soft like silk.

He reached forward.

“I know the Modron’s will,” a voice echoed in the hall, “and you do not execute it.”

“Sigrdrifa.” The druid erected his tall body and cast a narrow gaze at the High priestess, who walked in from the corridor with two young priestesses at her side.

“You will not interfe –“ he growled, but his words were drowned by the sound of large wings gushing dust-filled air.

The dragon descended from the chasm in the roof, roaring an echoing cry. The melancholy sound bounced against the stone walls and caused crumbling dust fall from the heights. The scales of the creature glistened and shifted from black to dark green as it settled beside the pond. Its thunderous breath rolled in its throat.

All gaped at the dragon, except the priestesses, who regarded it with calm gazes. The hierophant stood rooted to the spot, mouth hung open. He dropped the ampoule to the ground, breaking in to pieces. With an ooze, the liquid seeped into the dust of the ground.

The dragon snorted and howled at one of the remaining lackeys of the hierophant, who fell to his behind with a whimper. It let out a calling cry, the meaty extensions to its nose quivering, and dived into the pond.

Everything in the hall stilled, as if even the stars held their breaths. The diving movement of the dragon left the waters rippling.

The pond exploded in a shower of glistening drops when the dragon resurfaced. It climbed upon the crevice and shook its shimmering, scaled body.

Inside its slowly unfurling wings lay Nannah.

Carefully, Sigrdrifa grabbed her in her arms. She placed the child in front of the dragon’s paws. It bent its neck and puffed a cloud of glittering air into Nannah’s face.

Her hair came alive first, frizzing with electricity. Her white, a-shaped dress after, the dry patches slowly diminishing into dry cloth. Last came her skin. The small white hairs on her arms and legs rose with the colors of her cheeks.

She opened her eyes.

The dragon melted and transformed. The rustling sound of its scales rattled against the stone and cast glimmering reflections on the wall. From its body rose two small formations that quickly assembled into catform. Hogni and Tovni walked up to Nannah to press their furs against her as she sat up. Their combined purring resonated like a bee swarm.

Bran sat up, still bound, his mouth open.

“Vanadhis”, he whispered.

 

*

 

“Let me continue to heal her! Do you not understand what I say?”

Yennefer of Vengerberg’s voice resonated stony and cold, but a warm tear trickled down her cheek. Beads of cold sweat gathered at her temples. A healing spell radiated through her trembling fingers, but Geralt pushed her away. He sat on the ground, Triss’ body in his arms.

“Yen, no,” he growled, “You are overdoing it! The last time you tried to force heal this much, you nearly killed yourself!”

He shoved another of her advances away.

“Think of Cáerme and Carwyn! And Ciri, they need you! I won’t lose you too!”

She paused her spell and took a step back, falling to her knees.

Geralt’s head sunk to place a kiss on Triss’ forehead. It was still warm.

“Why’d you do it, Triss?” he whispered.

“Because she never believed in her own happy ending.” Yennefer lilac gaze settled on the dust of the floor.

Geralt grasped Triss tighter. The tang of her blood reached his hyper senses. He didn’t wish to believe any of this was true.

 

*

 

Dettlaff didn’t dare to move. His heart clenched painfully in his chest. The sight of his daughter sent his mind reeling.

“Nannah,” he breathed.

She smiled at him.

“Yes, I used to go by that name. Now, I will be known by a different name.”

The hinges of the cage screamed as its door flung open. Trembling, Dettlaff stepped out.

Tilting her head, the girl placed her gaze on Rennaugh. A small wrinkle appeared between her eyes. She walked up to her and gently placed her fingertips on Rennaugh’s forehead.

A heartbeat passed. Rennaugh stirred with a moan.

Beside her, the Hierophant fell to his knees.

“Vanadhis,” he whimpered, “I didn’t know, I…”

The white-haired girl turned to him. Hogni stiffened her tail, Tovni hissed.

“You played your part, Haerviu. It is all good.” She walked up to him and placed her small hand on his bearded cheek. He inhaled, a large gulp of air.

She swiped her hand carefully over his face.

“Do you see it, Haerviu? How all is good?”

His eyes gazed into the air. An astounded expression spread on his wrinkled face.

“I see it.”

A tear fell from his eye and trickled down a wrinkle to reach the crook of his open mouth.

“All is full of love.”

He closed his eyes. She smiled with an expression of utter affection on her visage.

Something cracked inside Dettlaff. He seized the momentum and lunged at the two remaining druids. They only had time to take a last inhale of breath before he slashed their bodies in two, their blood splattering over the cave walls.

Both priestesses by Sigrdrifa’s side let out exasperated squeals. Bran leaned his head forwards in an attempt to not empty his stomach between his feet.

Dettlaff turned to the Hierophant, impaled his body it on his claws, and threw him into the pond with a roar.

The body of the last Hierophant of the Skellige druidic circle glided down the waters, leaving a trailing cloud of blood behind him.

All the while, Dettlaff’s daughter witnessed his act, her eyes large and weighty.

Rennaugh sat up cried out her daughter’s name, her voice hoarse.

The white-haired child met her eyes, but soon lifted her chin and directed her gaze to the hall entrance.

“She needs me,” she whispered.

 

*

 

“Hey Triss,” Geralt said into red hair, his voice thick, “You remember that cake you made the other week for my birthday, the one I said I loved? I lied. I didn’t like it, but it didn’t matter, because you thought I would. You always did that, Triss. You’ve always cared for me so much. Like that time you took me out of Thanedd to Brokilon, even though I’d just broken your heart. I never deserved it, you hear me?” He took a shuddering breath. “I should have told you more how happy you make me, Triss. So fucking happy. Please, don’t leave me.”

Yennefer listened to his litany, eyes glossy. She lifted her gaze from the floor as a child walked into the room, with pale skin and white hair flowing down her shoulders, eyes large and cerulean blue. After her came the rest of the people from the hall with the pond. All approached carefully as if treading on eggshells.

Rennaugh leaned on Dettlaff. She whimpered at the sight of Triss lifeless in Geralt’s arms.

The child placed a small hand on Geralt’s shoulder. He turned his cat eyes to her, surprised.

She got down to her knees and placed her fingertips to Triss’ forehead.

“Wake up, doula,” she said, her voice soft like feathers.

Geralt stopped breathing. Triss stirred in his arms. She moaned lowly, a small crevice appeared between her eyebrows. The little girl stood up and took a few steps back, her little face full of reverence.

That is when Regis reached their location, panting from having run and transformed quickly. He froze at the scene; Geralt on the floor hugging Triss tightly, exhaling a mix of laughter and tears, Yennefer kneeling to embrace them both. Further in, by another entrance, Dettlaff held his arm around a pale Rennaugh, her kirtle bloodied. The High priestess, accompanied by two young priestesses, observed the scene with her calm, golden-speckled eyes, and behind her, the young druid with the blonde hair and the grey feathered mantle limped forward, looking like he’d just awoken from a nightmare.

Regis didn’t see the girl at first. The rays of the moon hit her white hair and linen dress to render her near invisible, as if she melted into the fading crystal light. Two familiar cats lay by her side, purring and squinting harmoniously.

When their eyes met, he knew that everything that had led to this point – his whole life – had been for good, and that through her, he would know freedom.

Geralt stood up, one arm under Triss’ knees and the other wrapped around her shoulders. Without a glance on the rest of the people in the cavern, he paced towards the exit, limping.

“I’m taking you out of this cave,” he said. Yennefer walked beside them, her hand on Triss’ hair and the other on the small of Geralt’s back.

Triss twisted her neck. “Yennefer?”

“I’m here.”

Triss relaxed in Geralt’s arms.

“I heard you,” she croaked. She lifted hand to lay it over his heart. “Your voice. I held on to it.”

“Shh, don’t speak.”

“I knew you never liked that silly cake I made.” She smiled into his neck.

“I said don’t speak.”

He smiled too.

 

*

 

Sigrdrifa motioned her apprentices out, her hand on Bran’s arm. The walked out from the outcrop, passing Regis.

Rennaugh and Dettlaff kneeled before their daughter.

She smiled at them and gently caressed their faces. The purring of cats filled the outcrop.

A pair of warm, cerulean eyes met his.

“Come, lautni. You are part of this.”

On shaky legs, Regis walked up to them and fell to his knees beside Dettlaff. His heart swelled enough for him to fear he might float into the air or crash through the floor – which, he was uncertain.

“Thank you for showing me the depths of the human heart. And of the vampire heart.” 

The child turned to Rennaugh, a small wrinkle between her eyebrows.

“You are sad, Rennaugh. Why do you mourn?”

“I failed you,” her mother sobbed, “I couldn’t protect you.”

Her eyes glistened in the light that emanated from the child.

“And now we’ve lost you - haven’t we?” Rennaugh’s shoulders shook.

Dettlaff closed his eyes, head sinking to his chest.

The child smiled in infinite compassion.

“You have not lost anything that was yours to begin with. I came through you, but not from you. I am the Great Mother’s promise to her people, fulfilled. I am also the result of her longing for life, for herself.”

She caressed Rennaugh’s hair but placed her gaze on Dettlaff and Regis.

“You _never_ failed me. To die is a part of being alive, inescapably. You showed me the meaning of life. I needed others to show me the meaning of death. ”

“Where will – what will happen to you?”

The face of the child shone, illuminated by the falling moon light. Hogni meowed.

“I am the heart of these islands. Seek me here, and I will always be with you.”

 

*

 

In the great hall of Kaer Trolde, Queen Cerys an Craite gazed over the crowd in front of her throne; Geralt and his friend, the one she had learned was a vampire by the name of Emiel Regis, the High priestess and the druid Bran, as well as the couple known to her as Rennaugh and Dettlaff, inhabitants of Hindarsfjall. Triss rested in bed, Yennefer stayed with her to monitor her recovery before she set off to Cintra to be with her grandchildren.

Only a few hours earlier, Cerys fought a rabid ice troll and witnessed her islands nearly sink to the depths of the ocean. She spent the entirety of last night debriefing with Sigrdrifa. This morning, her mind knotted from sleep deprivation and graveness considering what she had to do. In her years as queen, nothing had up to this point weighted so heavy on her and on the crown.

She placed her gaze on the pair in front of her. Dettlaff, whom she remembered as the man in raven hair, greying at his temples, held his arm around the shoulders of Rennaugh. She wore her arm in a string. A ring the shape of a snake on her finger caught the ray of the morning sun through the window panes of the fortress. Rennaugh’s large blue eyes stared into the air.

Cerys doubted she had slept this night.

“Rennaugh Didriksdottir,” Cerys spoke. “Yesterday, I was informed of you being a mage, and that the druids were called to attend a tribunal at Hindarsfjall to question why you lived among the people without revealing your powers. I learned the people of Hindarsfjall stood behind you, and that the Hierophant, in his anger, stole your daughter.”

Dettlaff clenched his fist at his side.

Rennaugh’s eyes met hers.

“You have lost, in ways I may never be able to comprehend. From the bottom of my heart, I am sorry. I know, that I am to blame for what happened.”

All eyes darted to her.

“Had I not trusted the druids to take care of children found to have magic abilities on these islands, this might never have come to be.”

Her heart weighed like iron in her chest.

“Still, you nearly destroyed these islands, Rennaugh. It is enough to banish you from Skellige forever. But I have conferred with the high priestess, and with Bran, the last of the Skellige druidic circle.”

She gestured at them.

“They have told me how through your daughter, you have blessed these islands. I have reached the conclusion that the people of Hindarsfjall will decide your fate, Rennaugh. You will leave Skellige – but, should they forgive you, you may return. If they agree to take you back, come and help rebuild a new order.”

She smiled at Rennaugh who stared at her, lips parted.

A profound silence grew by her words.

“Rennaugh,” Cerys continued, her voice harder than she had intended, “is this not what you want? A chance to change the situation for magic wielders on this island, to rid of these superstitions and achieve peace?”

“What I wanted,” Rennaugh rasped, “was to live in peace, with my family, my child, my work, my animals, my crop, my _life_!”

The last word drowned in a tearful sound. She took a deep breath.

“But I understand now, such a life was never for me. I – “

She silenced as Dettlaff released his grip of her and turned his face to the queen. Although he spoke lowly, the deep timbre of his voice rumbled in the hall.

“I knew I had a debt to humankind to pay. I didn’t think it would be this. Not this.”

Regis, who stood by the walls of the hall with Geralt and Triss, closed his eyes in pain.

“But she was never ours to begin with,” Dettlaff continued, voice raised. “She knew her fate perhaps from the beginning. Still, she is mine, my daughter. I give her to the human race. May they love her with even a fraction of how I do.”

“Dettlaff, mlusna cver,” Regis whispered.

Beside him, Rennaugh drew in breath.

“Was it not enough that you loved her? That you cared for her, everyday?” He held her arms as she spoke, tears overflowing. She shook her head.

“What was my debt? Why did _I_ have to lose her?”

Two fat tears rolled down her face. Her pain mirrored in Dettlaff’s eyes.

He had no answers.

Geralt stepped forward.

”Rennaugh.”

She turned glistening eyes to him, holding on to black leather.

“I am sorry for your loss. I once thought I had lost my daughter. It was the worst moment of my life. The pain I felt –“

He frowned.

“When I found her, she stayed with me only for a short time, before I had to let her go again - to face what I feared was certain death. Because she chose to. Because she wished to embrace her fate.”

He met their eyes, human and vampire.

“We love our children, and yet we have to let them go to face their own destinies. It is the painful truth of parenting. We can’t give them our thoughts or make them like us. They are their own. They are only ours to love and care for, never to possess or control.”

Rennaugh stared at Geralt in silence. She caught Dettlaff’s gaze before turning to Cerys.

“I accept. I will leave, but if the people of Hindarsfjall wishes it, I will return.”

The High priestess smiled and nodded.

“But there will be no lies, no more hiding,” Rennaugh continued. “The truth of the Hath d’Morie will be revealed. Dettlaff needs to be accepted back, his nature will be told. Only then will I return.”

Cerys nodded with a worried wrinkle between her eyebrows.

Dettlaff clenched his jaw and turned her to face him.

“No, Rennaugh. I don’t wish for the people of Hindarsfjall to know I’m a vampire. It would turn them against you, and what you could do for them. Your purpose on these islands is not finished. To reveal my nature - it means you would have to pay for my crimes in Beauclair. It is not fair.”

Rennaugh stared at him with a pained expression before she closed her eyes.

“There truly cannot be a reconciliation between humans and vampires? No way to co-exist? Shouldn’t the people of Skellige know their salvation came through a vampire? That vampire blood flowed in the veins of their deity?”

His face turned hard.

“I don’t care. Renn… I care only about us.”

They interlocked gazes in silence. For the first time that morning, her facial features softened.

“Your nature known or not – I won’t return without you.”

“It is decided them. I promise you, Rennaugh, that the people will know the role of vampires in their religion. But I will not expose your identity, Dettlaff, if you do not wish so.”

The queen reached for a parchment in the pocket of her jacket.

“This is the recipe for the poison Haerviu used to kill your child.”

Regis’ complexion turned white as chalk as the Queen walked up to the large open fire of the hall and threw the parchment in it.

“I hope we will meet again, Rennaugh, and you, Dettlaff. May you live in peace.”

 

**Epilogue**

After the death of Nannah, Rennaugh and Dettlaff returned to the continent, and spent a year in Triss’ and Geralts’ summer house in Pont Vanis.

The first weeks, Rennaugh did little but weep. She stayed for long hours in bed, clutching Nannah’s stuffed toy rabbit to her chest.

The pain came in waves. Some days, she returned to her senses, only to be floored by guilt and sorrow the next. Her grief hit her like the swelling and retracting of tide.

She had known chagrin before, but now, she shared it. When she was weak, he was strong for her, and when he succumbed to his guilt and pain, she held him.

Dettlaff drew – hundreds of portraits of Nannah; the shape of her little toes, the glitter in her eyes when she laughed, the tip of her tongue that always escaped her lips when she concentrated on a task. Rennaugh indulged in his drawings for hours, caressed them softly. He made their daughter come alive again, affirmed her immortality with the stroke of a pencil’s tip.

Regis often came to visit. They spoke of Nannah, and their life together. About her little songs and poems. How she, when they played hide and seek, ‘hid’ by sitting very still with her hands over her eyes. Or that time she laughed during supper and squirted milk through her nose. Or how she, as a toddler, displayed her discontent by throwing herself flat on the floor, flailing her little arms and legs. These moments often ended in tears of laughter, and tears of pain, while they held each other. Through reminiscing, they slowly healed.

Rennaugh often returned to Geralt’s words. Eventually, she knew gratitude; that they had had Nannah for a fleeting, yet beautiful near decade – that she had been theirs, unconditionally and totally. It was more than many parents got.

She could not succumb to guilt and grief, not when Nannah embraced her fate so bravely. In a sense, their daughter was still with them, and would always be.

Other nights, Rennaugh woke up with a hole inside her where Nannah had lain. She lived with that hole as long as she drew breath.

As she fell asleep each night on Dettlaff’s arm, she considered the twists of fate that brought them together; the unfathomable injustice of their loss, and the infinite blessing that was them - was their love not purpose enough to last an eternity? If she had to relive it all again, would she not, in an instant? Despite the pain they endured, regrets had no place in their story.

In the time for the new year, they attended Triss’ and Geralt’s wedding in Lan Exeter. It was not a great feast, only for their closest friends: Regis, Dandelion, Priscilla, Zoltan, Yennefer, Ciri, Hjalmar and the little twins.

After a year in exile, they got the message from the Queen: the people of Hindarsfjall had given their verdict. The garden bloomed again, and a small sapling of the ash sprouted on its old spot.

Come home.

They returned, greeted by Bran and the High priestess Sigrdrifa.

The legend of vampires coexisting with early worshippers of Freya upset some on the islands, delighted most historians, and was met with curiosity among others. Long forlorn happenings seldom threatened present custom, why it was accepted, albeit reluctantly. If the Nilfgaardians boasted their kinship with elves, Skelligers could boast their historical kinship to vampires, some claimed, half serious, half jesting.

A few of the people on Hindarsfjall treated Dettlaff with suspicion after the Hierophant’s words. Most never believed he was a vampire; “blood sucker” was largely understood as a racist slur against foreigners.

Dettlaff kept a distance. He ran with the wolves. He slowly explored the temple undergrounds. At times, he stopped flat from the soft sensation of cats pressing against his calves, of an unseen presence that reached him like a faint caress on his cheek.

With the blessing of Cerys and Sigrdrifa, Rennaugh and Bran rebuilt the two orders of Freya worshippers to a single congregation, welcoming women and men of all races alike. They renamed the congregation to the Otkell brother and sisterhood to honour the first worshippers of Freya on the island. Sigrdrifa retired from her priestess duties, and Rennaugh ascended the role as Flaminica rather than High priestess. Bran took the title of High priest.

Together, they swore to preserve balance in the force.

More children, boys and girls, were found to have magical abilities on the islands, and Rennaugh convinced Triss to open a branch of the school of magi on Ard Skellig. To Triss’ surprise, Philippa donated a considerable sum to the construction of the school. Astrid eventually became the school’s headmistress. The attitude to magic on the islands thawed considerably as a result.

Yennefer agreed to hold guest lectures on the nature of magic. Her seminars became famous for often resulting in at least one pupil leaving in tears.

Bo eventually took the position as headmistress of the school of magi in Kovir.

Rennaugh left a batch of the crystals in the care of the Queen, to ensure the powers of the ixa’s would never be used in dark purposes again.

Sigrdrifa died a few years after Rennaugh’s ascendance as Flaminica, claiming her deed had been done, and that she awaited the great hall of the Modron’s abode to take her place among the Valkyria. Her and Rennaugh’s relationship remained icy after the happenings in the druid crypt. Rennaugh never forgave the High priestess for hiding so much from her.

The temple served the followers of Freya and her daughter Vanadhis, whose presence ensured the island eternal life through bountiful harvests and lush gardens.

The people came to her with their newborns and their dead.

After a few years, Rennaugh and Dettlaff left for the continent to search for her mother and her sisters. They found them in Brugge as the third outbreak of the Catriona plague hit the lands.

Her mother and her stepfather died in the plague without her having a chance to talk to them. Rennaugh knew her mother was still with her, and that they would meet again, like she had met her father. When that time came, she would have all her questions answered.

She met her sisters, after all the years of longing. Many tears of joy and embraces were shared. Aslaug was married to a farmer and had two daughters of her own. Ylja had moved to study at the University of Oxenfurt. She eventually wrote a well-cited thesis on the archaeology of elven remnants and achieved the rank of associate professor.

Rennaugh stayed on the continent to help in the outbreak of the plague. She and Dettlaff met with Regis, and together, they travelled from farmstead to village to city to help. Dettlaff acted as their guard, as many bandits prowled the roads and necrophages feasted on the dead.

Regis eventually parted from them – he had a mission, he explained. Regis travelled to Corvo Bianco where he met with Geralt, Dandelion and Ciri. They journeyed to the shattered remains of Stygga castle. Regis placed three flowers from the Bryonia Alba on the soil, still barren from the magical energies that had trashed the castle to a large pile of dust.

Geralt uttered the names of fallen companions.

“Maria Barring - Milva. Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach. Angoulême.”

They rested in silence, enveloped by the rays of the setting sun, the cool evening air and the cawing of crows over their heads.

 

*

 

Rennaugh lived to see one hundred and eighty years.

Like most sorceresses, her aging eventually stopped, but unlike Triss and Yennefer who their whole lives resembled young women, Rennaugh aged until she was nearly fifty.

Dettlaff caressed the hair greying at her temples and kissed the lines that appeared beside her eyes.

Many years after her ascendance as Flaminica, during a visit to Nazair, Rennaugh knew her time had come. She and Dettlaff sublet a cottage by the ocean, where they woke each morning by the squalling of gulls and the gentle pace of waves flushing against sand.

They lay on their bed, her head on his shoulder. He moved to lean over her.

“I’m glad I got to see the famous blue roses at last,” she smiled, “to be honest though, I prefer the tulips.”

He snorted. And cried silently into the crook of her neck.

“Don’t be afraid,” she whispered and caressed his hair, almost completely grey now, “I will always be with you. When you are ready, I will come for you.”

A glint of pain flickered in her eyes. He caught a single tear that ran down her temple with his hand.

“Please, take me to her.”

He nodded and kissed her, one last time.

The next day, she was cold in his arms. According to her wishes, he burned her body and gathered the ashes. He set off to journey back to Hindarsfjall.

Bran’s grandson Roland greeted him at the temple. He arranged the funeral service. After blessing Rennaugh’s ashes, a song reverberated through the arched roof of the temple. They couldn’t tell from where it came, but Dettlaff knew it by heart.

 

Hush little starling

Rest your tired eyes

tomorrow is a new morning

and a new dawn will rise

 

Roland recited the code of the Otkell brother- and sisterhood:

 

There is no life without death

Death is in all that is living

Chaos and order are eternal

Through death, your chains are broken

Through life, there is balance in the force

 

Dettlaff asked to be alone. Roland nodded, placed a hand on his shoulder, and left.

First came the cats. She came to him a heartbeat later. Her presence caressed his skin, soft like a familiar fragrance.

At first, they said nothing. She stood next to him, eyes on the urn, her white hair flowing down her back and her small hands to her side. He wanted to extend his arms and embrace her but remained still. His heart was overfull.

“I accept it now, that you were going to take care of me.”

“Everyone had their part to play, apa. I’m sorry yours gave you so much pain.”

He cried.

“I don’t regret it. I regret nothing.”

She placed her hand in his. It felt like the whisks of eyelashes on his skin.

“Will you help me?” He wiped at his eyes.

“I will, apa. You’ve always known I would. When you are ready.”

 

*

 

The people of Hindarsfjall mourned when they learned of the death of Rennaugh. They erected at statue of her in the garden of Freya, next to the statue of Sigrdrifa. All women who wished for fertility and good health made it a custom to lay a single lily of the valley by its foot at each Walpurgis.

After the funeral ceremony, Dettlaff travelled to the cabin. No one had lived there since they left. He gingerly touched the drawn lines on their bedroom door frame that indicated Nannah’s growth, lay down on the bed he once made for her, and closed his eyes.

He dreamt he met a woman he barely recognized, with pale blue eyes and raven hair. She caressed his face.

He dreamt he met Syanna, full of peace. She smiled and lifted a hand to greet him.

He dreamt he met the bruxa of Amell mountains, who nodded at him, but soon turned her calm gaze to the horizon.

He dreamed of Rennaugh, who came to meet him. She took him by the hand. Together, they walked to the edge of the meadow.

He didn’t have to ask where Nannah was. She was everywhere. All was full of love.

“You are not alone,” Rennaugh whispered.

His being begged to go with her. And still –

“I can’t leave yet, not until he…”

She smiled.

“I know.”

“I miss you.”

She ghosted her fingertips along his jaw.

“And I you.”

 

*

 

Regis entered the tomb in the depths of the temple. He placed his hand on Rennaugh’s resting place and gently caressed it with his palm.

A presence enveloped him. He smiled as she approached him, cats in tow.

“I have been waiting for you, lautni.“

“I know you have, Aisuna,” he answered. He gave her white hair a soft gaze. “I knew you were my salvation the first time I laid eyes on you. I often wondered what a deity of vampires would be like. Now I know it is you – a goddess of life and death alike.”

In silence, she observed the tomb. Her body radiated a soft, strange light.

“Tell me, Aisuna, what will it be like?

“I will take you by the hand, and I will lead you over the meadow.”

“What is there beyond?”

She turned her clear gaze to him.

“There is no pain, no guilt. No fear. If I told you there are no thoughts, what would you say, Emiel Regis?”

“It would be a relief. You offer…  Exemption, from this obligation to go on.”

“It’s not all I offer. Regis, I can open the portals.”

His jaw dropped. This, he never imagined. This is the freedom the Tdet Elder sought for all vampires. And he? What was his role in all of this?

“But they are not for him.”

The meaning of her words seeped into his soul as waves of pain travelled through his body.

Her little hand found his.

“I will take care of you,” she whispered.

He inhaled a shuddering breath.

“Are you afraid, lautni? Your hands are shaking.”

“No, Aisuna. I am tired. So very tired.”

“I know, my love. Yet it is not your time.”

“No. First, I wish to document this, so that others may know. I always wanted to write. And I…” He smiled a smile that never reached his eyes. “Is it conceited of me, to stay because of another?”

She gave him a soft gaze.

“You are the one who taught me there is no greater reason to live.”

 

Regis travelled to the cabin, where he found Dettlaff on the bed, clutching a white stuffed toy rabbit and two rings shaped like serpents in his hands.

A faint smile played on his lips.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vanadhis – ‘the dis of the Vanir’ - is another name for Freya.  
> Doula is a name for a female companion or support to a mother during childbirth.  
> “I came through you, but not from you” is taken from Khalil Gibran’s [The Prophet](http://www.katsandogz.com/onchildren.html).  
> Vampiric speech in this chapter: Mlusna cver – one who sacrifices gift, offering.  
> Song inspiration – [All is full of love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AjI2J2SQ528) by Björk.  
> The Bryonia Alba – or the [English mandrake](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bryonia_alba).  
> The code of the Otkell brother- and sisterhood is inspired by the [Grey Jedi code](http://swfanon.wikia.com/wiki/Gray_Jedi_Code).
> 
> We have reached the end! Writing this fic has been a wonderful endeavour for me, one I almost gave up on in the beginning. I’m glad I didn’t. I’m grateful to all of you who have joined me by reading, leaving kudos, and commenting - thank you! It means so much to know that some have enjoyed the fic.
> 
> I’d like to thank a few people who has helped me in the process of writing Exemption.  
> Thank you anonymous, who beta read the first part of this fic, for help and inspiration.  
> Thank you [Arkhaniel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arkhaniel/pseuds/Arkhaniel) for helping me with broad questions regarding vampire lore.  
> Thank you, my friend Mel and [Sam](https://ultimatefanfictionwriter.tumblr.com/) for invaluable help with proofreading, when you’ve had the time and possibility.  
> Last but not least – thank you little H, for being an inspiration, and for making this world so beautiful, simply by being in it.
> 
> Perhaps you think I was cruel to let Rennaugh’s and Dettlaff’s child die? I agree. As cruel as all those deaths in Beauclair were, perhaps.  
> If you think it was cruel of me to let Dettlaff and Regis find a way to die, I kindly disagree. For me, to be immortal would mean to be a prisoner in this world. 
> 
> I would like to end this fic with a poem by Emily Dickinson.
> 
> The heart asks pleasure - first  
> And then - excuse from pain -  
> And then - those little anodynes  
> That deaden suffering
> 
> And then - to go to sleep -  
> And then - if it should be  
> The will of its Inquisitor  
> The liberty to die -


End file.
